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MRS. SOUTH EY'S 

(PORMERLY CAROLINE BOWLES) 

SELECT LITERARY WORKS, 

IN TWO PARTS. 



Tni-: 



SELECT LITEEAEY ¥OEKS, 



PROSE AND VERSE, 



OF 



MRS, CAROLINE SOUTHEYs 



EMBRACINQ 



THE BIRTH-DAY, SOLITARY HOURS, THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE, OUR OLD 
CLOCK, THi; SMUGGLER, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, &C. <kc. 



ONE VOLUME, IN TWO PARTS. 



PART T. 



HARTFORD: 
SILAS ANDRUS «& SON 

1851. 



THE 

B I R T H -D A Y; 

A POEM, 

IN THREE PARTS. 

TO WHICH ARE ADDED, 

OCCASIONAL VERSES. 

BY 

CAROLINE BOWLES, 

AUTHOR OF ELLEN FITZARTHUR, THE WIDOw's TALE, SOLITARY HOURS 
CHAPTERS ON CHURCHYARDS, TALES OF THE FACTORY, ETC. 



HARTFORD: 

SILAS ANDRUS & SON. 

1851. 
1* 



■a^vfvA ^-qtv^v^e"^ vi^?v ^ovAy Y€SV^. 



1 



/xv/il 



MEMORY OF THE DEAD 
I CONSECRATE 

THESE 

RECOLLECTIONS; 

TO THE 

INDULGENCE OF THE LIVING 

I COMMEND THEM 

C. B. 

BucKLAND, 24th May, 1836. 



CONTENTS OF PART I 



Thh Birtii-Day. 

Part the First, , ,1 

Part tlie Second, .29 

Part the Third, . ! G5 



Occasional Verses. 

The Churchyard, ^ 1Q5 

The Death of the Flowers, 107 

The Spell of Music, ! 108 

To Death, .... . . ! ! ! 109 

When shall we meet again ? . . . . . . .111 

To the Memory of Isabel So uthey, , , . .113 



" Aura Veni, 



115 



The Dying Mother to her Infant, . H" 

To the Sweet-scented Cyclamen, 12( 

The Treaty, .* ! ! 12.' 

The Last Journey, ••••..... 12'i 

Once upon a Time, 13^ 

Little Leonard's " Good-night," ....... 133 

Departure, ^ 235 

" How Swift is a Glance of the Mind !" I37 

The Pauper's Death-bed, .... I39 

To My Old Canary, •..,,.., ui 

To Little Mary, . . . . . * ' * * 147 

The Hedgehog, ■•....., i^n 

To My Little Cousin, with her first bonnet, I53 

On the Removal of some Family Portraits, I55 

Our Old House Clock, irq 

The Child's Unbelief, ....'.'* .* .* .' h^q 

The Legend of Santarem, 171 

The River, . -.jn 

To the Lady-bird, 278 



PART THE FIRST 



CONTENTS. 

The Sixth of December.— The Family Circle.— The Old Nurse.— The First 
Sorrow. — Education. — Poetic Aspirations. — Drawing. — The Landscape. — 
Parental Hopes. — Cutting Out. — Dolls. — Needle-work. — Fairy Sports. — Tho 
Firet Writing Lesson. — Sohtary Childhood. — The Garden.— Spring. 



THE BIRTH-DAY 



PART THE FIRST. 

Dark gloomy day of Winter's darkest month ! 
Scarce through the lowering sky your dawning light 
In one pale wat'ry streak breaks feebly forth. 
No sunbeam through that congregated mass 
Of heavy rolling clouds will pierce to-day. 
Beams of the cheering Sun ! I court ye not : — 
Best with the sadden'd temper of my soul 
Accords the pensive stillness Nature wears ; 
For Mem'ry, with a serious reckoning, now 
Is busy with the past — with other years, 
When the return of this, my natal day, 
Brought gladness to warm hearts that loved me well. 
As way-worn Pilgrim on the last hill top 
Lingers awhile, and, leaning on his staff, 
Looks back upon the pleasant plain o'erpast, 
Retracing far with retrospective eye 
The course of every little glancing stream, 
And winding valley path, late hurried o'er 
Perchance, with careless unobservant eye, 
Fix'd on some distant point, of fairer promise — 
As wit1i long pause the highest summit gained, 
(Dividing, like the Tyrolean ridge, 

2 



THE SIXTH OF DECEMBER. 



Summer from Winter) that wayfaring Man 
Leans on his staff, and looks a long farewell 
To all the lovely land : So linger I 
(Life's lonely Pilgrim !) on the last hill top, 
With thoughtful, tender, retrospective gaze, 
Ere turning, down the deep descent I go, 
Of the cold shadowy side. 

Fair sunbright scene ! — 
(Not sunny all — ah ! no) — I love to dwell. 
Seeking repose and rest, on that green track. 
Your farthest verge, along whose primrose path 
Danced happy Childhood, hand in hand with Joy, 
And dove-eyed Innocence, — (unwaken'd yet 
Their younger sister Hope) — while flowers sprang up 
Printing the fairy footsteps as they pass'd. 
Return, ye golden hours ! old times ! return : 
Even ye, ye simple pleasures, I invoke. 
With rose hues tinting life's delightful dawn ! 
Yes — I invoke ye, dear departed days ! 
I call ye from the land of shadows back 
(Mellow'd by softening Time, but not obscured ;) 
Distinct in twilight beauty, such as steals 
(Like grey robed Vestal in some pageant's train) 
With slow advance on sunset's crimson wake. 

Come in your mellow'd hues, long vanish'd years ! 
Come in your soften'd outline, passing slow 
O'er the charm'd mirror, as I gaze entranced — 
There first I see, when struggling into life, 
Dawn'd the first ray of infant consciousness ; 
There first I see, a tender, watchful group. 
Hailing delightfully that token faint. 
Two Parents then (inestimable wealth !) 
Two Parents me, their only darling, bless'd : 



THE OLD NURSE. 



And one — the good, the gentle, the beloved ! — 
My Mother's Mother. Still methinks I see 
Her gracious countenance : The unruffled brow, 
The soft blue eye, the still carnation'd cheek 
Unwrinkled yet, though sixty passing years 
Of light and shade — (Ah ! deeply shaded some) — 
Had streak'd with silvery grey her tresses fair. 
Even now methinks that placid smile I see, 
That kindly beam'd on all, but chief on me, 
Her age's darling ! Nor of hers alone : 
One yet surviving in a green old age, 
Her Mother lived ; and when I saw the light, 
Rejoicing hail'd her daughter's daughter's child. 

Nor from that kindred, patriarchal group 
Be thou excluded, long tried, humble friend ! 
Old faithful Servant ! Sole survivor now 
Of those beloved, for whom thine aged hands 
The last sad service tremblingly perform'd, 
That closed their eyes, and for the long, long sleep, 
Array'd them in the vestments of the grave. 
Yes — ^THOU survivest still to tend and watch ' 
Me, the sad orphan of thy Master's house ! 
My cradle hast thou rock'd ; with patient love 
(Love all enduring, all indulgent) borne 
My childhood's wayward fancies, that from thee 
Never rebuke or frown encounter'd cold. 
****** 

Come nearer. — Let me rest my cheek even now 

On thy dear shoulder, printed with a mark t^^' 

Indelible, of suffering borne for me : A"*"^"^ ^r 

Fruit of contagious contact long endured, /^^ 

When on that pillow lay my infant head 

For days and nights, a helpless dying weight, 



THE OLD NURSE. 



So thought by all ; as almost all but thee 

Shrank from the little victim of a scourge 

Yet uncontroll'd by Jenner's heaven taught hand. 

And with my growth has grown the debt of love ; 

For many a day beside my restless bed, 

In later years, thy station hast thou kept. 

Watching my slumbers ; or with fondest wiles 

Soothing the fretful, fev'rish hour of pain : 

And when at last, with languid frame I rose, 

Feeble as infancy, what hand like thine, 

With such a skilful gentleness, performed 

The handmaid's office ? — tenderly, as when 

A helpless babe, thou oft had'st robed me thus. 

Oh ! the vast debt. — ^Yet to my grateful heart 

Not burdensome, not irksome to repay : 

For small requital dost thou claim, dear Nurse ! 

Only to know thy fondly lavish'd cares 

Have sometimes power to cheer and comfort me : 

Then in thy face reflected, beams the light. 

The unwonted gladness, that irradiates mine. 

Long mayst thou sit as now, invited oft, 

Beside my winter fire, with busy hands 

And polished needles, knitting the warm wool ; 

Or resting with meek reverence from thy work. 

When from that Book, that blessed Book ! I read 

The words of Truth and Life, — thy hope and mine. 

There shalt thou oft (Time's faithful chronicler !) 

Tell o'er to my unwearied ear old tales 

Of days and things that were — and are no more. 

Yes — thou shalt tell, with what a noble air. 

On wedding, or on christ'ning festival, 

The portly form of my Grand uncle moved ; 

In what fair waving folds, the snowy lawn, 



THE OLD NURSE. 



Border 'd with costly point, redundant flow'd 
Beneath his goodly amplitude of chin ; 
And how magnificent in rich brocade, 
And broider'd rose-buds, and rough woven gold. 
Half down his thigh the long flapp'd waistcoat fell. 
A comely raiment ! that might put to shame 
The shrunken garb of these degenerate days. 
Then shall I hear enumeration proud 
Of female glories : silks that " stood on end !" 
Tabbies and damasks, and rich Paduasoys, 
And flowing sacks, and full trimm'd negligees, 
And petticoats whose gorgeous panoply 
(StifTen'd with whalebone ribs the circuit vast) 
With independent grandeur stood sublime. 

Describe again, while I attend well pleased. 

That ancient manor of my Norman race, 

In all its feudal greatness : In thy time. 

Of simple girlhood, to thy wondering mind. 

Still most magnificent ; nor yet forsaken 

By the "old family." The ancient gateway 

Surmounted by heraldic sculpture proud ; 

The round tower dovecote with its thousand holes 

(Seignorial right, with jealous care maintain'd), 

And my Great Grandam with her stately presence 

(I mind it well) among her Maidens throned 

At the eternal tapestry. I smile ; — 

But more, good sooth ! in sadness than in mirth. 

I've seen the ancient gateway where it stands 

An isolated arch. The noble trees 

(A triple avenue), its proud approach, 

Gone as they ne'er had been ; the dovecote tower 

A desecrated ruin ; the old house 

2* 



THE FIRST SORROW. 



Dear Nurse ! full fain am I to weep with thee 
The faded glories of " the good old time." 

Return, digressive Fancy ! Maiden mild 
Of the dark dreamy eye, pale Memory ! 
Uphold again the glass, reflecting late 
My happy self in happy childhood's dawn. 
By that dear guardian group encircled close. 

Already changed ! — Already clouded o'er 
With the Death shadow that fair morning sky — 
The kindred band is broken. One goes hence. 
The very aged. Follows soon, too soon, 
Another most endeared, the next in age. 
Then fell from childhood's eyes the earliest tears 
Shed for Man's penal doom. Unconscious half, 
Incomprehensive of the awful truth ; 
But flowing faster, when I look'd around 
And saw that others wept ; and faster still, 
When clinging round my Nurse's neck, with face 
Half buried there, to hide the bursting grief, 
I heard her tell how in the churchyard cold. 
In the dark pit, the form I loved was laid. 

Bitter exceedingly the passionate grief 
That wrings to agony the infant heart ; 
The first sharp sorrow : — Ay — the breaking up 
Of that deep fountain, never to be sealed. 
Till we with time close up the great account. 
But that first outbreak, by its own excess 
Exhausted soon ; exhausting the young powers : 
The quiv'ring lip relaxes into smiles. 
As soothing slumber, softly stealing on ; 
Less and less frequent comes the swelling sob. 



EDUCATION. 



Till like a summer breeze it dies away ; 

While on the silken eyelash, and the cheek 

Flush'd into crimson, hang the large round drops — 

Well I remember, from that storm of grief 

Diverted soon, with what sensations new 

Of female vanity — (inherent sin !) 

I saw myself arrayed in mourning frock, 

And long crape sash Oh ! many a riper grief 

Forgets itself as soon, before a glass 
Reflecting the becomingness of weeds. 

Soon came the days when fond parental care 

'Gan mingle easy tasks with childish play. 

Right welcome lessons ! conn'd with willing mind : 

For it was told me, by such labour won, 

And exercise of patience, I should gain 

Access to countless treasures hid in books. 

" What ! shall I read myself, and when I will, 

All those fine stories Jane can tell sometimes 

When she's good natured ? — but not half so well — 

—Oh ! no — not half, as Cousin Marianne. 

What ! shall I read about the sea of glass 

The lady walk'd on to the ivory hill ? 

And all about those children at the well 

That met the fairy, and the toads, and frogs. 

And diamonds ; and about the talking bird, 

And dancing water, and the singing bough. 

And Princess Fairstar ? Shall I read all that, 

And more, and when I will, in printed books ? 

Oh ! let me learn." — And never student's brain 

Fagging for college prize, or straining hard 

(In prospect of tremendous little go) 

To fetch up Time's leeway in idlesse lost. 

Applied with such intensity as mine. 



EDUCATION. 



And soon attained, and sweet the fruit I reap'd, 

Oh ! never ending, ever new delight ! 

Stream swelling still to meet the eager lip ! 

Receiving as it flows fresh gushing rills 

From hidden sources, purer, more profound. 

Parents ! dear Parents ! if the latent powers 

Call'd into action by your early cares 

(God's blessing on them !) had attained no more 

Than that acquaintance with His written will, 

Your first most pious purpose to instil, 

How could I e'er acquit me of a debt 

Might bankrupt Gratitude ? If scant my stores 

Of human learning ; — to my mother-tongues 

(A twofold heritage) wellnigh confined 

My skill in languages ; — if adverse Fate — 

(Heathenish phrase !) — if Providence has fixed 

Barriers impassable 'cross many a path 

Anticipation with her Hope-wing'd feet. 

Youthfully buoyant, all undoubting trod ; — 

If in the mind's infirmity, erewhile. 

Thoughts that are almost murmurs whisper low 

Stinging comparisons, suggestions sad. 

Of what I am, and what I might have been — 

This Earth, so wide and glorious ! I fast bound 

(A human lichen !) to one narrow spot — 

A sickly, worthless weed ! Such brave bright spirits, 

Starring this nether sphere, and I — lone wretch ! 

Cut off from oral intercourse with all — 

" The day far spent," and oh ! how little known ; — 

The night at hand — alas ! and nothing done ; — 

And neither " word, nor knowledge, nor device. 

Nor wisdom, in the grave whereto I go." 

* * V * ^ * 

When thoughts like these arise ; permitted tests 



POETIC ASPIRATIONS. 



Proving my frailty — and thy mercy, Lord ! 

Let but thy ministering angel draw mine eyes 

To yonder Book ; and lo ! this troublous world 

Fades from before me like a morning mist ; ♦ 

And in a spirit, not mine own, I cry 

" Perish all knowledge, but what leads to thee !" 

And, was it chance, or thy prevailing taste, 

Beloved instructress ! that selected first 

(Part of my daily task) a portion short, 

Culled from thy " Seasons," Thomson ? — Happy choice, 

Howe'er directed, happy choice for me ; 

For as I read, new thoughts, new images 

Thrill'd through my heart, with undefined delight, 

Awakening so th' incipient elements 

Of tastes and sympathies, that with my life 

Have grown and strengthened ; often on its course, 

Yea — on its darkest moments, shedding soft 

That rich warm glow they only can impart ; 

A sensibility to Nature's charms 

That seems its living spirit to infuse 

(A breathing soul) in things inanimate ; 

To hold communion with the stirring air. 

The breath of flowers, the ever shifting clouds, 

The rustling leaves, the music of the stream. 

To people Solitude with airy shapes, 

And the dark hour, when Night and Silence reigns. 

With immaterial forms of other worlds : 

But best and noblest privilege ! to feel 

Pervading Nature's all-harmonious whole. 

The Great Creator's presence, in his works. 

Those happy evenings ! when on seat high raised 
By pond'rous folio, placed on cushioned chair 



10 THE LANDSCAPE. 



Close to the table drawn ; with candles snuffed, 

And outspread paper, and long pencil, shaved 

To finest point (to my unpractised hand 

Not trusted yet the sharply dangerous knife, 

Like all forbidden things most coveted) ; 

— Oh, blessful hour : when thus installed on high 

In fulness of enjoyment, shapes uncouth. 

Chaotic groups I traced. — The first attempt 

Two crooked strokes, that nodding inward, prop 

A fellow pair — a transverse parallel. 

The House thus roofed ; behold from either end 

Tall chimneys twain sprout up like asses' ears. 

From which, as from a fiery forge beneath 

Ascend huge volumed smoke-wreaths to the sky. 

Next, in the stately front, strokes — one — two — three ; 

There gaps the door, as wide as half the house, 

And thick on either hand, come cross-barred squares 

'Hight windows, that for number would tire out 

The patience of that keenly prying wight 

The tax collector ; while from one, be sure. 

Looks out some favourite form of absent friend, 

Whose house that goodly fabric represents. 

Close on each side, two poles surmounted high 

By full round wigs, assume the name of trees ; 

And up the road (that widens farthest off, 

In brave contempt of stiff perspective rule) 

Comes coach and six, containing — who hut me 

And all my friends, to visit that fine house ! 

Then follows man and horse — a gallant steed ! 

With legs, and mane, and tail, and all complete ; 

The rider so secure upon his back. 

He need but stretch his legs, and touch the ground — 

Thick flies the dust ! — out flies the brandished whip ! 

On, on they go — and if they reach the house, 



PARENTAL HOPES. 11 

That horseman tall may take it on his palm, 
As erst Glumdalclitch handled Gulliver — 
And now a five-barred gate, and sundry pales, 
And up aloft a flight of birds, so huge 
They must be cranes at least, migrating hence : 
Some cocks and hens before the door convened — 
A dog and cat, and pig with curly tail, 
And lo ! the Landscape in all parts complete. 

And never artist of the olden time, 
Renowned Lorraine, or wonder-working Cuyp, 
Or he, the mighty genius of the storm, 
Sublime Salvator, on his masterpiece 
Such looks of sweet complacency bestowed 
As I on mine. And other eyes beheld, 
As pleased, as partial ; and parental hearts 
From the bewildered and incongruous maze 
Sweet inference drew of future excellence ; 
Saw combination in the motley whole, 
Conceptions picturesque in crooked strokes. 
And taste and genius manifest throughout. 
Discernment keen ! that with excursive eye 
Pierces the dark dropped curtain (wisely dropped !) 
That shrouds futurity. As he of old. 
The fated Goth, in that Toledan cave 
Saw shadowed out, " as in a glass revealed," 
Things uncreated yet, that were to be — 
But he beheld the downfall of his hopes ; 
His line extinct, his empire overthrown. 
Appalling vision ! type of woes foredoomed — 
Far fairer that, less faithfully fulfilled. 
The pageant that in long perspective view 
Reveals (undoubted) to a parent's eye 
The future glories of his infant race — 



12 PARENTAL HOPES. 



He, while the fairy people round his chair 
Holds its gay revel, from the mimic sport 
Auspicious omen draws, and sage portent. 

That fair, bold boy, with high^undaunted brow. 

And broad white chest and shoulders, who bestrides 

His father's cane, a gallant war-horse feigned, 

Himself the warlike rider ; and with shout. 

And brandish'd arm, and voice of proud command, 

Marshals his legions ; chairs and cushions ranged 

In rank and file : and prances round the room 

The valiant leader of that well-trained host ; — 

Is not the future hero manifest. 

The laurelled victor, in that noble boy ? 

And he, with curly pate, and bright black eyes, 

And dimpled mouth, of arch significance ; 

He ever ready with his " quips and cranks," 

And shifts, and windings, and keen subterfuge, 

Detected misdemeanour to excuse. 

Averting dextrous the suspended rod — 

Already fancy hears that prating tongue, 

Subtle, ingenious, disputatious, bold ! 

The organ of a future barrister ; . 

Or round that chubby face, with prouder hope, 

Adjusts an awful majesty of wig. 

Lo ! on that cushion, where he sits sublime, 

(His woolsack now) the future Chancellor — 

That gentle child, with pale transparent cheek, 

And large mild eyes, by silken fringes veilea 

(Clouds darkly shading their celestial blue), 

That melt in dewy sadness, if he hears 

Some moving tale ; how " once two hapless babes 

Were left alone to perish in a wood, 

And there in one another's arms they died, 



PARENTAL HOPES. / 13 



And Robin Redbreast covered them with leaves" — 
That gentle child must be a man of peace — 
He cannot brave the buffets of the world. 
And yet — with all his meekness — who can tell ? — 
The boy may live to be a bishop yet. 
And little Annie — what will Annie be ? 
The fair-haired prattler ! she, with matron airs, 
Who gravely lectures her rebellious doll — 
" Annie will be papa's own darling child, 
Dear papa's blessing." Ah ! she tells thee truth : 
The pretty mockbird with his borrowed notes, 
Tells thee sweet truth. Already, is she not 
Thy darling child ? Thy blessing she will prove — 
The duteous prop of thy declining years. 
Thy sons, will rove, as various fortune leads, 
Haply successful in their several paths, 
And, like thyself, in course of years, become 
The careful fathers of a hopeful race ; 
Then will ambitious thoughts, and worldly cares 
Engross their hearts, and haply steal from thee 
A portion of thy former influence then — 
But sTie will never change. That tender heart, 
Though wedded love, and infant claimants dear, 
May waken there new interests — new and sweet ; 
Thine in that loving heart will ne'er decrease — 
'Tis rich in kind affections, and can give. 
Ay, largely give, without despoiling thee — 
Thou wilt partake her ever watchful cares — 
Her husband, for her sake, will cherish thee ; 
Her children will be taught to honour thee ; 
And while they fondly swarm about thy chair, 
Or climb thy knees, th' endearing witchery 
Will half renew again her infant days — 
It is not love that steals the heart from love ; 

3 



14 CUTTING OUT. 



'Tis the hard world, and its perplexing cares ; 
Its petrifying selfishness, its pride, 
Its low ambition, and its paltry aims. 

Those happy evenings ! ay, 'twas there I left — 

The landscape finished, young invention sought 

(Not often bafiled) springs of fresh delight. 

And found them frequent, Goldsmith, in thy work 

" Of Animated Nature" — precious book ! 

Illustrated with pictures, that to me 

Rivalled at least the subjects they adorned — 

Then with sharp scissors armed (a jealous loan 

With many a solemn charge conceded slow), 

And fair unwrinkled paper, soon began 

The imitative labour : and anon 

Wide o'er the table ranged a motley herd, 

A heterogeneous multitude, before 

Never assembled thus, since that old time 

When Noah to the finished ark called in 

Of every species the allotted pair. 

There first the unwieldy elephant advanced, 

Majestic beast ! on whose stupendous bulk 

Rajah or Sultan might have sat sublime ; 

Next in the line of march (ill-mated pair !) 

With branching antlers, and slight flexile limbs. 

Comes on the graceful dweller of the north ; 

He whose winged swiftness, like an arrow's flight. 

Wafts the rude sledge, that bears o'er Lapland snows 

The stinted native of those cheerless plains. 

The Arab's faithful servant follows next. 

The patient camel, useful to the last — 

Who, when he sinks upon the burning sand 

Beneath his burthen, slakes his master's thirst 

(Slain for its sake) with the long-hoarded draught. 



CUTTll^G OUT 15 



Then came the warrior bison, strong ally 
Of his rude lord, grim guardian ot his herds, 
And sharer of his cabin comforts few. 

Thus had I learnt ot each brief history 

From those illumined pages, to relate 

(Too oft I fear to undelighted ears), 

When with triumphant pleasure I displayed 

The wonders of that paper menagerie — 

But not as then, will I enumerate now, 

From the grim lion to the timorous hare, 

Each by his several title, name, and style — 

Or notice, but with glancing mention brief, 

Those higher aims of art, creating shapes 

(Not likenesses of aught in Heaven or earth), 

That with self-gratulating pride I called 

Orlando and Rogero — names renowned ! 

And Bradamant, and fair Angelica — 

For I had read with eager interest. 

Half comprehending, that romantic tale. 

And thine immortal Epic, sightless Bard ! 

In Pope's smooth verse revealed to ears unlearned, 

Supplied a subject, that recalled, e'en now 

Provokes me to a smile ; so strange the choice ; 

That novel illustration so uncouth. 

'Twas when forth issuing from the Cyclop's cave 

The wily Ithacan Ulysses came. 

Locked in the shaggy fleeces of the ram. 

Behind his Centaur flock. Incongruous pairs ! 

Biped and quadruped together linked. 

Ulysses never bound his trembling crew 

More carefully beneath the guardian's fleece 

Than I secured their paper eflTigies 



16 DOLLS. 



To sheep, for height and bulk (proportions huge !) 
Worthy, indeed, to be a giant's flock. 

How vivid still, how deep the hues, th' imprint 

Left by those childish pastimes ! Later joys. 

Less puerile, more exciting have I known 

(Ah ! purer none ; from earth's alloy so free). 

But Memory hoards no picture so distinct, 

In freshness as of yesterday, as those 

Life's first impressions, exquisite and strong — 

Their stamp, compared to that of later days. 

Like a proof print from the engraver's plate 

The first struck off — most forcibly imprest. 

Lo ! what a train like Bluebeard's wives appear, 

So many headless ! half dismembered some. 

With battered faces — eyeless — noseless — grim 

With cracked enamel, and unsightly scars — 

Some with bald pates, or hempen wigs unfrizzed. 

And ghastly stumps, like Greenwich pensioners ; 

Others mere Torsos — arms, legs, heads, all gone ! 

But precious all. And chief that veteran doll. 

She, from whose venerable face is worn 

All prominence of feature : shining brown 

(Like chestnut from its prickly coating freed) 

With equal polish as the wigless skull — 

Well I remember, with what bribery won 

Of a fair rival — one of waxen mould 

(Long coveted possession !) I was brought 

The mutilated fav'rite to resign. 

The blue-eyed fair one came — perfection's self! 

With eager joy I clasped her waxen charms ; 

But then — the stipulated sacrifice ! 

"And must we part?" my piteous looks expressed- 



NEEDLE-WORK. 17 



(Mute eloquence !) " And must we part, dear Stump !" 
" Oh ! might I keep ye both !" — and both I kept. 

Unwelcome hour I ween, that tied me down 

Restless, reluctant, to the sempstress' task ! 

Sight horrible to me, th' allotted seam 

Of stubborn irish, or more hateful length 

Of handkerchief, with folded edge tacked down, 

All to be hemmed ; ay, selvidge sides and all. 

And so they were in tedious course of time. 

With stitches long and short, " cat's teeth" y'clept; 

Or jumbled thick and thin, oblique, transverse. 

At last, in sable line imprinted grim. 

But less distasteful was the sampler's task ; 

There green and scarlet vied ; and fancy claimed 

Her privilege to crowd the canvass field 

With hearts and zigzags, strawberries and leaves. 

And many a quaint device ; some moral verse. 

Or Scripture text, enwrought ; and, last of all, 

Last, though not least, the self-pleased artist's name. 

And yet, with more alacrity of will, 

I fashioned various raiment ; caps, cloaks, gowns ; 

Gay garments for the family of dolls ; 

No matter how they fitted — ^they were 7nade ; 

Ay, and applauded, and rewarded too 

With silver thimble. Precious gift ! bestowed 

By a kind aunt ; one ever kind and good. 

Mine early benefactress ! Since approved 

By time and trial mine unclianging friend ; 

Yet most endeared by the affecting bond 

Of mutual sorrows, mutual sympathies. 

Yet was that implement (the first possessed), 

3* 



18 FAIRY SPORTS. 



Proudly possessed indeed, but seldom worn. 

Easier to me, and pleasanter, to poke. 

As one should poke a skewer, the needle through 

With thumb and finger, than in silver thrall 

T' imprison the small tip, too tiny still 

For smallest thimble ever made to fit. 

Dear aunt ! you should have sought in wizard lore 

The name of some artificer, empowered 

By royal patent of the Elfin Court 

To make Mab's thimble — if the sprightly Queen 

Ever indeed vouchsafes in regal sport, 

With needle, from the eyelash of a fly, 

Plucked sharp and shining, and fine cobweb-thread, 

T' embroider her light scarf of gossamer. 

Not oft I doubt ; she better loves to rove 

Where trembling harebells on the green hill side 

Wave in their azure beauty ; or to slide 

On a slant sunbeam down the fragrant tube 

Of honeysuckle or sweet columbine, 

And sip luxurious the ambrosial feast 

Stored there for nature's alchymist, the bee, 

Then satiate, and at rest, to sleep secure, 

Ev'n in that perfumed chamber, till the sun 

Has ploughed with flaming wheels the Atlantic wave, 

And the dark beetle, her mailed sentinel. 

Winds his shrill signal to invite her forth. 

Not on her waking hour such pomp attends. 

As when on Ohio's banks magnolias tall 

Embalm the dews of night, and living sparks 

Glance through the leaves, and star the deep serene. 

But even here, in our romantic isle. 

The pearl of ocean, girdled with its foam ! 

Land of the rainbow ! even here she loves 

The dewy freshness of the silent hour, 



FAIRY SPORTS. 19 



Whose gentle waftings have their incense too, 

To scatter in her paths ; the faint perfume 

Of dog-rose pale, or aromatic breath 

Of purple wild thyme, clouding the green sward ; 

And though in air no sparkling myriads dart 

Their glancing fires to light the Fairy Queen, 

Earth hath her stars, a living emerald each ! 

And by the lustre of those dewy gems 

She trips it deftly with her merry train 

In mossy dells, around the time-scarred trunk 

Of giant oak ; or 'neath the witch-elm's shade. 

Beside some deep dark pool, where one bright star 

Trembles reflected ; or in velvet meads. 

Where, though the limpid blade of tender grass 

Bends not beneath the " many-twinkling" feet. 

Dark circles on the paler sward defined 

Reveal at morning where the dance has been ; 

Oft thickly studded with a mushroom belt. 

The fungus growth of one short summer's night, 

The ring so geometrically drawn. 

As if the gnomes with scientific skill 

(Forming the fairy sports) had mimicked there 

The circling rampart of a Celtic camp, 

Or with more apt similitude designed 

The Druid's holy ring of pale grey stones. 

There oft the milkmaid, when with shining pail 

She seeks the glistening pasture, finds dispersed 

The relics of the banquet ; leaves and flowers, 

From golden kingcups cropped, and poplars white, 

The cups and trenchers of the midnight feast. 

Ah, lucky lass ! when stirring with the lark. 

On dairy charge intent, she thither hies 

And finds her task forestalled — The cool tiled floor 

Flooded, fresh sluiced ; stool, shelf, and slab bright rubbed 



20 THE FIRST WRITING LESSON. 

Scalded and sweet the glazy milk-pans all ; 
And scoured to silver sheen the ready pail ; 
And brighter still, within its circle left, 
The glittering sixpence — industry's reward. 

Me more delighted, in the fairy's haunts 
To sport, like them an airy gleesome sprite, 
Than, prisoner of an hour — e'en that loo long, 
The needle's task monotonous to ply. 
But I have lived to prize the humble art, 
To number with the happiest of my life 
Those quiet evenings, when with busy hands 
I plied the needle, listening as I wrought 
(By that mechanical employ, more fixed 
Attention apt to rove) to that dear voice 
Which from some fa v 'rite author read aloud. 
The voice is silent, and the task laid by — 
Distasteful now, when silence, with a tongue 
More audibly intelligent than speech. 
For ever whispers round me, " She is gone." 

A day to be remembered well was that. 
When, by my father taught, I first essayed 
The early rudiments of penmanship. 
Long wished for lesson ! by prudential love 
(Wisely considerate of my infant years) 
Withheld, till granted slow in fair exchange 
For some relinquished pleasure ; 'twas received 
A twofold grant — a boon and a reward. 
So I began — long rig'rously confined 
To rows of sloping strokes. Not sloping all ; 
At first in straggling piles they jostled rude, 
Like raw recruits, till into order drilled, 
Maintaining equal distance, on their march 



THE FIRST WRITING LESSON. 2J 

Even and close they ranged like vet'ran troops, 
In ranks symmetrical ; and then at last 
My long restrained ambition was indulged 
In higher flights ; with nicer art to shape 
The involutions of the alphabet. 
Unsteady and perplexed the first attempts — 
Great A's, that with collossal strides encroached 
On twice the space they should have occupied, 
And I's like T's, and R's whose lower limbs 
Beyond the upper bulged unseemly out ; 
And sprawling W's, and V's, and Y's, 
Gaping prodigiously, like butter-boats. 
But soon succeeded to those shapeless scrawls 
Fair capitals, and neat round characters, 
Ere long in words and sentences combined : 
At first restrained between two guiding lines ; 
Then ranged on one — that one continued long, 
Spite of ambitious daring, that would fain 
Have strayed, from limit and restriction free ; 
For ardently I longed to scrawl at will 
The teeming fancies of a busy brain ; 
Not half content, not satisfied, albeit 
My father, with a kind and ready pen. 
Vouchsafed assistance to the infant muse. 

sft * * * * * * 

Smile, gentle Reader ! (if so be, in sooth. 
Reader shall e'er these simple records scan), 
But not in mockery of supposed conceit 
Proud of precocious genius. I too smile 
In sad humility, experience-taught. 
At thought of the young daring, by fond hearts 
Built on exultingly. Alas ! dear friends, 
No heaven-born genius, as ye simply deemed. 
Stirred in my childish heart the love of song ; 



22 SOLITARY CHILDHOOD. 

'Twas feeling, finely organized perhaps 

To keen perceptions of the beautiful, 

The great in art or nature, sight or sound. 

The working of a restless spirit, long 

For every pastime cast upon itself — 

(I was an only child, and never knew 

The social pleasures of a schoolgirl's life). 

All these, with other circumstance combined, 

As those first lessons, from the books I named, 

And rural occupations, tuned my soul 

Aye (every trembling chord) to poesie. 

Books were my playfellows, and trees and flowers, 

And murmuring rivulets, and merry birds, 

And painted insects, all were books to me. 

And breathed a language, from the dawn of sense 

Familial" to my heart : what marvel then 

If, like an echo, wakened by the tone 

Of Nature's music, faint response I made ? 

And so I stood beside my father's knee. 

Dictating, while he wrote, wild rhapsodies 

Of " vales and hills enamelled o'er with flowers, 

Like those of Eden, white with fleecy flocks :" 

Of " silver streams, by spring's warm breath unbound. 

And winter past and gone." 

Most simple themes. 
Set to a few low notes monotonous. 
Like the first chirping of a nestling bird, 
Quavering uncertain ! But parental hearts 
Hailed them as heavenly music — to their ear 
Prelusive of rich volumed harmonies. 
Fond hopes ! illusive as the march-fire's light ; 
Yet — not like that, in utter darkness quenched. 
Nature in me hath still her worshipper. 
And in my soul her mighty spirit still 



THE GARDEN. 23 



Awakes sweet music, tones and symphonies 
Struck by the master-hand from every chord. 
But prodigal of feeling, she withholds 
The glorious power to pour its fulness out ; 
And in mid-song I falter, faint at heart 
With consciousness that every feeble note 
But yields to the awakening harmony 
A weak response — a trembling echo still. 

Revive, dear healthful pastimes ! active sports 

Of childhood's enterprising age revive ! 

Elastic aye ! untiring, unsubdued 

By labour, disappointment, or fatigue. 

Thy toil enjoyment ; — thy defeated hope 

The spur to fresh exertion — thy fatigue 

The healthful anodyne that medicines thee 

To renovating slumbers light and sweet. 

Full oft I pause with reminiscent eye 

Upon the little spot of border-ground 

Once called " my garden." Proud accession that 

To territorial right and power supreme ! 

To right possessive, the exclusive mine 

So soon asserted, e'en by infant tongue. 

Methinks the thick-sown parallels I see 

Of thriving mustard, herb of rapid growth ! 

The only one whose magical increase 

Keeps pace with young impatience, that expects 

Ripe pulse to-morrow from seed sown to-day. 

To-morrow and to-morrow passes on, 

And still no vestige of th' incipient plant ; 

No longer to be borne, the third day's sun 

Beholds the little fingers delving deep 

T' unearth the buried seed ; and up it comes 

Just swelling into vegetable life ; 



24 THE GARDEN. 



Of which assured, into the mould again 
'Tis stuck, a little nearer to the top. 
Such was the process horticultural 
I boldly practised in my new domain : 
As little chance of rest, as little chance 
To live and thrive had slip or cutting there ; 
Which failing in three days to sprout amain, 
Was twitched impatient up, with curious eye 
Examined ; and if fibrous threads appeared. 
With renovated hope replanted soon. 

But thriving plants were there, tho' not of price. 

No puny children of a foreign soil. 

But hardy natives of our own dear eartli, 

From many a field and bank, and streamlet side 

Transplanted careful, with the adhering mould. 

The primrose, with her large indented leaves 

And many blossoms pale, expanded there ; 

With wild anemone, and hyacinth. 

And languid cowslip, lady of the mead, 

And violets mingled hues of every sort. 

Blue, white, and purple. The more fragrant white 

Ev'n from that very root, in many a patch 

Extended wide, still scents the garden round. 

Maternal love received the childish gift, 

A welcome offering, and the lowly flower 

(A rustic stranger) bloomed with cultured sweets ; 

And still it shares their bed, encroaching oft 

(So ignorance presumes) on worthier claims. 

She spared it, in the tenderness of love, 

Her child's first gift ; and I, for her dear sake. 

Who prized the pale intruder, spare it now. 



Loved occupations ! blameless, calm delights 



SPRING. 85 



Your relish has not palled upon my sense ; 

I taste ye with as keen enjoyment still 

As in my childish days ; with zeal as warm, 

More temperate, less impatient, still I tend 

My flow'ry charge ; with interest unimpair'd 

Watching the tender germ and swelling bud ; 

Pruning the weak or too luxuriant shoot, 

And timely propping with assiduous care 

The slender stalks with heavy blossoms bowed. 

I will not tell how lately and how oft 

In dreams I've wandered 'mongst the blooming tribes, 

Continuing thus in sleep the pleasing task, 

My summer evening's toil ; I will not tell 

How lately, stealing forth on moonless night, 

I've sought by lantern light the dewy buds 

Of peeping larkspur, searching 'mong the leaves 

For nightly spoilers, from the soft light earth 

That issue forth to feed on the young plant, 

Their fav'rite dainty. No — I will not tell, 

Lest wisdom laugh to scorn such puerile cares 

In age mature, how lately they've been mine. 

The gladness ! the unspeakable deep joy ! 
When Nature, putting off her russet stole 
Of wintry sadness, decks herself afresh 
In bloom and beauty, like a virgin bride. 
With lovely coyness, shrinkingly she comes, 
For oft in clouds, and mist, and arrowy sleet, 
The sun, her bridegroom, veils his glorious face, 
And on his setting hour too often hangs 
The breath of ling'ring frosts, repelling long 
All but the hardiest children of the spring. 
Of these, the earliest pursuivants, appear 
4 



26 SPRING. 



(Studding the brown earth with their golden stars) 

The clust'ring aconites, a pigmy race, 

Fearless of wintry blast, whose fiercest rage 

Passes innocuous o'er their lowly bed. 

But soon through every border the moist earth 

Breaks up its even surface, every clod 

Expands and heaves with vegetable life ; 

And tender cones of palest green appear, 

The future hyacinths, and arrowy points 

Of bolder crocus ; and the bashful heads 

Of snowdrops, trembling on their slender stalks ; 

And next, of many hues, hepaticas, 

The red, the milk-white, and the lovelier blue 

(A vegetable amethyst !) come forth, 

Th' impatient blossoms bursting into sight 

Before the tardier leaves ; but those at length 

Expand their outward circle, fencing round 

With its broad fringe the tufted bloom v/ithin. 

But Winter oft, tenacious of his sway, 

Enviously lingers on the skirts of Spring, 

Binds up in frozen chains the stubborn soil, 

Nips the young leaf, and checks the tender germ. 

In such ungenial seasons oft I've watched 

Week after week, and shiver'd at the sight, 

Beneath some shelving bank or garden wall 

Long wreaths of snow that on the border mould 

In drifted thickness heap'd, continuous lie. 

Elsewhere divested of that livery pale 

The cold Earth reassumes her natural hues. 

And slow returning verdure : But in vain 

To the stiff surface heave the tender heads 

Of budding flowers ; or if they struggle through, 

Deep in their shelt'ring leaves conceal'd they lie. 



SPRING. 27 



At length succeeds a thaw — a rapid thaw, 

And from the Heavens a dazzling Sun looks down, 

Arousing Nature from her torpid thrall. 

Yielding and moist becomes the dark'ning mould, 

And from that snow-heapM border melts away 

The drifted wreath ; — it shrinks and disappears, 

And lo ! as by enchantment, in its place 

A rainbow streaks the ground — a flow'ry prism 

Of crocus tribes innum'rous, to the Sun 

Expanding wide their gold and purple stars. 

A Christian moral (to the pious mind 

All things present one) may be found e'en here. 

Adversity, like that pale wreath of snow, 

Falls on the youthful heart, a seeming load 

Of deadly pressure, crushing its young hopes ; 

But seeming such, for after certain space 

Continuing there, and if it finds the soil 

Not wholly sterile, to the frozen mass 

Of its own latent virtues it imparts 

A fertilizing warmth, that penetrates 

The surface of obdurate worldliness. 

Then from the barren waste (no longer such) 

Upspring a thousand amaranthine flowers 

" Whose fragrance smells to Heaven." Desires chastised, 

Enlarged affections, tender charities, 

Long suff 'ring mercy, and the snowdrop buds 

Of heavenly meekness — These, and thousands more 

As beautiful, as kindly, are call'd forth. 

Adversity ! beneath thy fost'ring shade. 



PART THE SECOND. 



CONTENTS. 

The Willow-tree.— The Swing.— The Old Parrot.— The Toad.— The Me- 
chanic. — My Spaniel. — Juba. — Birds and Beasts. — Humanity. — Sensibility. 
— Sportsmen.— My Hare. — Old Ephraim. — Travelled Puppies. — Sympathy. 
— Conoscenti. 



4* 



PART THE SECOND. 



Hard by that flourishing domain, that strip 

Of border ground, my garden, late described, 

On a grass plot by the house door there stood 

An aged willow, whose long flexile boughs 

With their light shadows chequered the green turf; 

Beneath the sheltering arms of that old tree 

Pastime (to me delightful) oft I found 

On balanced seat, upborne by a strong limb 

Selected for the trust with cautious care, 

Anxious as his, who for an arctic voyage 

Of unknown peril, far discovery. 

Selects the timbers for some strong-ribbed bark : 

Ev'n with like caution did my father choose. 

The transverse bough to which his hands made fast 

With firmness doubly sure the swinging cords ; 

Committing to their strength a freight to him 

More precious, than to Solomon of old 

The yearly lading of his treasure ships 

From Tarshish and from Ophir — Ay, than those 

To the great Hebrew — than the wealth of .worlds — 

Far, far more precious to my father's heart 

That bending bough's light weight — his only child. 



Right pleasant pastime ! the clear cutting air 
To cleave with rapid motion, self-impelled — ■ 
(For I was dext'rous at the sport) — to sway 



32 THE SWING. 



With pendulous slow motion, dying oft' 
To scarce perceptible, until at last 
Settling to perfect stillness : which, howe'er, 
A breath, a finger's motion would disturb. 
So 'twas my luxury to sit and dream, 
Building in cloud-land many a castle fair, 
Albeit no genii of the ring or lamp 
Came at my bidding ; in those dreamy moods 
I conjured up as gorgeous palaces — 
Gardens as dazzling bright with jewelled fruit 
As e'er Aladdin's wondering eyes beheld, 
And peopled them with living forms, to me 
(Deep read in magic lore) familiar all. 
Then the Commander of the Faithful strayed, 
And dark Mesrour, and that devoted slave 
Giaffer, the pearl of ministers, whose head 
So lightly on his patient shoulders sat. 
Ready to leave them headless, at a nod 
From his most gracious master. Stately walked 
Beside her mighty lord his jealous spouse, 
Scornful Zobeide, their attendant slaves 
Close following ; the fair Noushatoul • and he 
The Caliph's fav'rite, jester of the court. 
Facetious Abon Hassan. Hunchback too, 
And that loquacious Barber, and his train 
Of luckless brethren, came at my command. 
Then, with King Saladin and Queen Gulnare, 
A car of pearl and coral bore me off 
Through sub-marine dominions — overarched 
With liquid chrysolite the billo^vy vault ; 
Or with the exiled brethren far I strayed, 
Amgrad and Assad, or that happier prince 
Who found the hall of statues, found and won 
That ninth, so far surpassing all the rest. 



THE SWING. 



Anon I ventured on a darker realm, 

Peopled with awful shapes — magicians dire, 

Happak and Ulin, and their hideous crew, 

The Sultan Misnar's leagued inveterate foes. 

How my heart beat, as in the dead of night 

With him and his suspected slave I trod 

Those rocky passages, hewn roughly out 

In the earth's entrails ! How I held my breath 

(Expecting the result) when through the ring 

The severed rope slid rapidly away ! 

How my young feelings sympathized with hers, 

The duteous Una's, when on Tigris' banks 

(A weeping orphan) she was left forlorn ; 

And when in urgent peril — hapless maid ! 

In that dark forest from her side she missed 

The guardian peppercorns ! But oh ! the joy 

When in the shaggy monarch of the woods, 

A brave protector — brave and kind she found — 

I saw her by his side — in his thick mane 

I saw her small white fingers fondly twined ; 

Majestically gentle, at her feet 

I saw the royal brute lie fawning down ; 

/ saio all this — and murmured half aloud, 

" Oh how I wish I had a lion too !" 

Fantastic shadows ! fearful ! gay ! grotesque ! 

Still with a child's delight I reperuse 

The pages where ye live ; recall ye still — 

Ay — all your marv'llous annals — with as keen 

And u-ndiminished interest as of yore 

When I convened ye at my sov'reign will 

In that green bower beneath the willow-tree, 



34 THE OLD PARROT. 



Where moments flew uncounted as I sat 

With eyes half-closed, excluding outward things ; 

And as the spell within worked languidly, 

Or kindled into action, truth, and lite, 

Slower or faster swung my airy car 

(Not quite at rest, for that had broke the charm), 

Unconscious I so tranced in waking dreams, 

That mine own impulse checked or urged it on. 

But I was not sole tenant of the tree, 

Not then companionless : above my head 

Among the thicker branches (there secure 

From the swing's reach) our old grey parrot hung — • 

Poor Poll ! we were in truth well-sorted mates. 

Wert thou my prototype 1 or I in sooth 

The shadow of thy graces and thy wit ? 

As Jacko in the fable proveth plain 

That man (the servile copyist !) apes his. 

Associates though we were in that green bower, 

Yet little kindness, Poll ! betwixt us grew ; 

For many an ancient grudge in either heart 

Kept us asunder, and the hag Mistrust 

Widened the unhealed wounds of former feuds. 

Thou wert in truth th' aggressor in those feuds. 

For, Poll ! it ill became thy reverend years. 

With spiteful vengeance of that hard sharp beak 

The unsuspecting freedom to repulse 

Of baby fondness, first encouraged too 

By coaxing treach'ry— " Scratch poor Polly's head." 

And when thy victim, smarting with the pain 

Of that unkind reception, wept aloud, 

'Twas most ungenerous, Poll ! to flout and jeer, 



THE OLD PARROT. 35 



And mock with imitative whine, and cry, 
And peevish whimper, and convulsive sob, 
Concluding all with boist'rous ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Then comments indiscreet of mutual friends 

(Such oftenest the result) but served t' increase 

And whet the growing animosity. 

The frowning hearer, when I gabbled o'er 

Some tedious lesson, not a word whereof 

Informed my far-off senses ; bade me note 

How Poll as glibly ran her lesson o'er 

Of words by her as little understood. 

The mincing nursemaid, sedulous t' improve 

The graces of her charge, reproached me oft 

With turned-in toes — "for all the world like Poll." 

And when my heart with rage rebellious swelled — 

Alas ! 'twas a rebellious little heart — 

And angrily I stamped the tiny foot, 

And screamed aloud, the bird screamed louder still ; 

And I was told to mark how even Poll 

Despised and laughed to shame the naughty girl. 

As babyhood's first lisping years wore on, 
'Monitions such as these their influence lost, 
And to the noisy mimic's flout and jeer 
A careless, callous listener I became ; 
But distance due was still between us kept 
"With strict punctilio — an armed, neutral peace, 
Never infringed by familiarity. 
So there together in the willow-tree 
Our several pastimes Poll and I pursued; 
Some, much resembling still, for to and fro 
Exalted in her wiry globe, she swung, 
As if to mimic there my sport below. 



36 THE TOAD. 



Thou wert the only creature, bird or beast, 

Excluded from my lavish fondness, Poll ! 

Fowls of the air, and beasts, and creeping things, 

Ay, reptiles — slimy creatures — all that breathed 

The breath of life, found favour in my sight ; 

And strange disgust I've seen (J thought it strange) 

Wrinkle their features who beheld me touch, 

Handle, caress the creatures they abhorred ; 

Enchase my finger with the palmer- worm 

Or caterpillar's green, cold, clammy ring, 

Or touch the rough back of the spotted toad. 

One of that species, for long after years, 

Ev'n till of late, became my pensioner — 

A monstrous creature ! — It was wont to sit 

Among the roots of an old scraggy shrub, 

A huge Gum-Cystus : All the summer long 

" Princess Hemjunah" (titled so by me 

In honour of that royal spell-bound fair 

So long compell'd in reptile state to crawl), 

" Princess Hemjunah" there, from morn to eve, 

Made her pavilion of the spicy shrub ; 

And they who look'd beneath it, scarce discern'd 

That living clod from the surrounding mould 

But by the lustre of two living gems 

That from the reptile's forehead upward beam'd 

Intelligent, with ever-wakeful gaze. 

There daily on some fresh green leaf I spread 

A luscious banquet for that uncouth guest — 

Milk, cream, and sugar, — to the creature's taste 

Right welcome offering, unrejected still. 

When Autumn winds 'gan strew the crisped leaves 
Round that old Cystus, to some lonelier haunt, 
Some dark retreat the hermit Reptile crawl'd : 



THE TOAD. 37 



Belike some grotto, 'neath the hollow roots 
Of ancient laurel or thick juniper, 
Whose everlasting foliage darkly gleam'd 
Through the bare branches of deciduous trees. 
There, self-immured, the livelong winter through 
Brooded unseen the solitary thing : 
E'en when young Spring with violet-printed steps 
Brush'd the white hoar-frost from her morning path. 
The creature stirr'd not from its secret cell : 
But on some balmy morn of rip'ning June, 
Some morn of perfect summer, waken'd up 
With choirs of music pour'd from every bush, 
Dews dropping incense from th' unfolding leaves 
Of half-blown roses, and the gentle South 
Exhaling, blending, and diffusing sweets — 
Then was I sure on some such morn to find 
My Princess crouch'd in her accustom'd form 
Beneath the Cystus. 

So for many years 
— Ay — as I said, till late she came and went, 
And came again when summer suns return 'd — 
All knew and spared the creature for my sake. 
Not without comment on the strange caprice 
Protecting such deform'd, detested thing. 
But in a luckless hour — an autumn morn, 
About the time when my poor Toad withdrew 
(Annually punctual) to her winter house ; 
The axe and pruning-knife were set at work — 
— (Ah ! uncle Philip ! with unsparing zeal 
You urged them on) to lop the straggling boughs 
Whose rank luxuriance from the parent stem 
Drain'd for their useless growth too large supply ; 
Branch after branch condemn'd fell thickly round, 
Till, moderate reform intended first, 



38 THE TOAD. 



(Nice task to fix the boundary !) edged on, 

Encroaching still to radical ; and soon 

Uncheck'd the devastating fury raged. 

And shoots, and boughs, and limbs bestrew'd the ground, 

And all denuded and exposed — sad sight ! 

The mangled trees held out their ghastly stumps. 

Spring reappear'd, and trees and shrubs put forth 
Their budding leaves, and e'en those mangled trunks 
(Though later) felt the vegetable life 
Mount in their swelling sap, and all around 
The recently dismember'd parts, peep'd out — 
Pink tender shoots disparting into green. 
And bursting forth at last, with rapid growth, 
In full redundance — healthful, vig'rous, thick ; 
And June return'd with all her breathing sweets, 
Her op'ning roses and soft southern gales ; 
And music pour'd from every bending spray ; 
E'en the old mangled Cystus bloom'd once more, 
But my poor Princess never came again. 
More beauteous graceful pensioners were those 
(But not more harmless) on the gravel walk 
Before our parlour- window, from my hand 
That peck'd their daily dole of scatter'd crumbs. 
Welcome and safe was each confiding guest, 
Though favour with a partial hand strew 'd thick 
The crumbled shower in Robin Redbreast's way ; 
But all were welcome, — Blackbirds, Thrushes, Wrens, 
Finches, and chirping Sparrows. 

How I hate 
Those London Sparrows ! Vile, pert, noisy things ! 
Whose ceaseless clamour at the window-sill 
(The back-room window, op'ning on some mews) 
Reminds one of the country just so far 



THE MECHANIC. 39 



As to bemock its wild and blithesome sounds, 

And press upon the heart our pent-up state 

In the great Babylon ; — oppress'd, engulf 'd 

By crowds, and smoke, and vapour : Where one sees, 

For laughing vales fair winding hi the Sun, 

And hill-tops gleaming in his golden light, 

The dingy red of roofs and chimneys tall 

On which a leaden Orb looks dimly down ! 

For limpid rills, the kennel's stream impure ; 

For primrose banks, the rifled scentless things 

Tied up for sale, held out by venal hands ; 

For lowing herds and bleating flocks, the cries 

Of noisy venders threading every key. 

From base to treble, of discordant sound ; 

For trees, unnatural stinted mockeries 

At windows, and on balconies stuck up 

Fir-trees in vases ! picturesque conceit ! 

Whereon, to represent the woodland choir. 

Perch those sweet songsters of the sooty wing. 

Yet as I write, the light and flippant mood 
Changes to one of serious sadden'd thought. 
And my heart smites me for the sorry jest, 
Calling to mind a sight that fill'd me once 
With tend'rest sympathy. 

In a great city, 
Blacken'd and deaf'ning with the smoke and din 
Of forge and engine. Traffic's thriving mart, 
Charter'd by Mammon ; underneath a range 
Of gorgeous show-rooms, where all precious metals, 
In forms innumerous, exquisitely wrought, 
Dazzled the gazer's eye, I visited 
The secret places of the " Prison House" — 



40 THE MECHANIC. 



From den to den of a long file I passed 

Of dingy workshops — each affording space 

But for the sallow inmate and his tools : 

His table, the broad, timeworn, blackened slab 

Of a deep sunken window, whose dim panes 

Tinged with a sickly hue the blessed beams 

Of the bright noonday sun. I tarried long 

In one of those sad cells, conversing free 

With its pale occupant, a dark-browed man 

Of hard repellant aspect — hard and stern. 

But having watched awhile the curious sleight 

Of his fine handicraft, when I expressed 

Pleased admiration, in few words, but frank, 

And toned by kindly feeling — for my heart 

Yearned with deep sympathy — the moody man 

Looked up into my face, and in that look 

Flashed out an intellectual soul-fraught oleam 

Of pleased surprise, that changed to mild and good 

The harsh expression of that care-marred face. 

There lay beside him on the window slab 

A dirty ragged book turned downwards open 

Where he had last been reading, from his toil 

Snatching a hurried moment. Anxiously 

I glanced towards it, but forbore to question. 

Restrained by scrupulous feeling, shunning most 

Shadow of disrespect to low estate — 

But from the book my wandering gaze past on 

To where, beyond it, close to the dim panes, 

A broken flowerpot, with a string secured, 

Contained a living treasure — a green clump 

(Just bursting into bloom) of the field orchis. 

"You care for flowers," I said, "and that fair thing, 

The beautiful orchis, seems to flourish well 

With little light and air." 



THE MECHANIC. 41 



" It won't for long," 
The man made answer, with a mournful smile 
Eying the plant — " I took it up, poor thing ! 
But Sunday evening last from the rich meadow 
Where thousands bloom so gay, and brought it here 
To smell of the green fields for a few days 
Till Sunday comes again — and rest mine eyes on, 
When I look up fatigued from these dead gems 
And yellow glittering gold." 

With patient courtesy, 
Well spoken, clear (no ignorant churl was he) 
That poor artificer explained the process 
Of his ingenious art — I looked and listened. 
But with an aching heart that loathed the sight 
Of those bright pebbles and that glittering ore ; 
And when I turned to go — not unexpressed 
My feelings of good will and thankfulness — 
He put into my hand a small square packet 
Containing powder, that would quite restore 
(He told me) to dull gems and clouded pearls 
Their pristine lustre. I received, well pleased, 
Proffering payment ; but he shook his head, 
Motioning back my hand ; and stooping down 
Resumed his task, in a low deep toned voice 
Saying, " You're kindly welcome." 

Gems and pearls 
Abound not in my treasury ; but there 
I hoard with precious things the poor man's gift. 

But what have I to do (distasteful theme !) 

With towns and cities ? thither unawares 

Wild fancy wandered, but recalled as soon. 

Wings back her way, and lights at home once more ; 

Lights down amid the furred and feathered court 



42 MY SPANIEL. 



That own'd my sov'reign sway — a motley train ! 
Rabbits and birds, and dormice, cats, and kittens, 
And dogs of many a race — from ancient Di, 
My father's faithful setter, to black Mungo 
And mine own fav'rite spaniel — most fiiine oivn. 

My poor old Chloe ! gentle playfellow I 

Most patient, most enduring was thy love ; 

To restless childhood's teasing fondness proof, 

And its tormenting ingenuity. 

Methinks I see thee in some corner stuck 

In most unnatural posture, bold upright, 

With rueful looks and drooping ears forlorn. 

Thy two forepaws, to hold my father's cane 

(Converted to a musket), cramped across. "*' 

Then wert thou posted like a sentinel 

Till numbers ten were slowly counted o'er — 

That welcome tenth ! The signal sound to thee 

Of penance done and liberty regained — 

Down went the cane, and from thy corner forth, 

With uproar wild and madly frolic joy 

Bounding aloft, and wheeling round and round 

With mirth-inviting antics, didst thou spring. 

And the grave teacher (grave no longer) shared 

The boist'rous pupil's loud unbridled glee ; — 

Then were there dismal outcries — shrill complaints — 

From angry Jane, of frocks and petticoats 

All grim with muddy stains and ghastly rents ;- — 

"'Twas all in vain," the indignant damsel vowed, 

" 'Twas all in vain to toil for such a child- 

For such a Tom-boy ! Climbing up great trees — 

Scrambling through brake and bush, and hedge and ditc: 

For paltry wild-flowers. Always without gloves 

Grubbing the earth up like a little pig 



JUBA. 43 



With her own nails, and (just as bad as he) 
Racing and romping with that dirty beast." 
Then followed serious, — " But the time will come 
You'll be ashamed. Miss, of such vulgar ways: 
You a young lady ! — Not much like one now." 
Too oft unmoved by the pathetic zeal 
Of such remonstrance, pertly I replied, 
" No, mistress Jane ! that time will never come — 
When I'm grown up I'll romp with Chloe still, 
As I do now ; and climb and scramble too 
After sweet wild-flowers just as much as now ; 
And ^ grub the earth,' and 'never put on gloves.' 
Then if I dirt my hands and tear my frock, 
You'll not dare scold when I'm a woman grown — 
For who would mind your scolding. Mistress Jane ?" 

Alas, poor maid ! an arduous task was thine ; 
A hopeless labour, recommencing still — 
Like theirs, the unhappy sisters, doomed to pour 
Eternal streams in jars that never fill. 

Next in degree to the old faithful dog — 
Next in my favouring fondness, Juba ranked. 
Sprung of a race renowned, in Juba's veins 
The mettled blood of noble coursers ran : 
Foaled on my father's land, his sprightly youth 
Sported, like mine, those pleasant meads among, 
And when I saw him first, a new-born thing, 
Tottering and trembling by the old mare's side 
On his long slender limbs, I called liim then^ 
And thenceforth he was called, " My little horse." 
And soon those slender, flexile limbs were braced 
With sinewy strength ; and soon that feeble frame 
Expanded into vig'rous, noble bulk — 



44 JUBA. 



From his broad swelling chest arched proudly up, 

With graceful curve, the yet unbridled neck ; 

Free to the winds the flowing mane and tail, 

In their wild beauty, streamed exuberant out. 

Or lashed the glossy chestnut of his sides 

With dark dishevelled flakes ; and his small ears 

With flexile beauty oft inverting quick 

Their black-fringed edges ; and those large bright eyes 

Flashing with all the fire of youth, and joy, 

And freedom uncontrolled ! I see him now. 

My gallant Juba, racing round the field 

Fleet as the whirlwind ; — with down arching neck, 

Yet stately in its bend ; and clattering hoofs ; 

And long back streaming tail. In mid career, 

Self-checked and suddenly, he stops abrupt, 

Back on his haunches, gathering proudly up 

His bulk majestic ; and with head flung back 

Disdainfully aside, and eyes of flame. 

And nostrils wide distended, firmly forth 

He straightens one black, sinewy, slender limb. 

The other gathered inward, touches scarce 

The ground with its bent hoof Then loud and clear 

Echoes o'er hill and dale his long shrill neigh, 

And e'er the sound expires, with snort and stamp 

Away he starts, and scours the field again. — 

But oft at sight of me — (full well he knew 

His fairy mistress !) — oft at sight of me, 

With whinnying welcome, and familiar eye. 

Yet shyly curious, he came trotting up 

Expectant, the accustomed feast to claim 

(Apple or crust) that I was wont to bring. 

I have not specified the creatures half, 

My sometime favourites. Should I notice each, 



HUMANITY. 45 



Paper would fail, and patience be worn out 

Of most indulgent reader. Such a throng ! 

Jackdaws and magpies — turtle doves and owls — 

And squirrels, playful in captivity. 

But still untamed. Most barb'rous to immure 

The pretty sylvan in a small close cage ; 

Painful to watch the everlasting round 

The restless prisoner circles all day long 

Monotonous (sad mockery of mirth !) 

Within his narrow limits. Wretched change 

From the wild haunts, where erst, from tree to tree 

He leaped and gambolled all the summer long, 

The very life of liberty and joy. 

Mine was an old maimed creature — maimed for life 

By the vile treacherous snare ; and happier since 

(So I concluded) in its captive state 

Of plenteous ease, than helplessly at large 

Among its hardier fellows of the woods. 

A very hospital, in truth, I kept 

For such dumb patients, maimed, diseased, and old. 

The squirrel just described (a veteran then) 

Had just precedence ; next in age and rank 

Hopped an old bulfinch, of one leg bereft — 

By what untoward accident, the bird 

Brought no certificate. A sportsman once 

(None o' th' keenest) brought me bleeding home 

A wounded leveret — not quite hurt to death, 

But sorely mangled. From its mother's side 

Scarce could the little creature yet have strayed. 

When all too well that fatal shot wa3 aimed. 

Perhaps that luckless morning was the first 

Among the dewy herbs and tender grass 

That the poor mother led her young one forth 

To taste the sweets of life, — that sacred trift 



4G >C SENSIBILITY. 



Of its Almighty Maker ! Was the boon 

Bestowed to be abused in cruel sport 

By Man, into whose nostrils the same power 

Breathed with creating will the breath of life ? 

I know for Man's convenience and support, 

Nay, for his luxuries, the inferior kinds 

Must toil and bleed. But God, who gave so far 

Dominion over them, extended not 

The royal grant to torture or abuse : 

And he who overtasks them, or inflicts 

Protracted or unnecessary pain, 

By far outstrips his warrant, and heaps up 

On his own head for the great reck'ning day 

Such measure as he metes withal to them, 

Of tender mercy. 

I would not devote 
My person, as the pious Hindoo doth. 
To banquet noxious vermin ; nor engage 
The patient carcass of some needy wretch 
To make them pasture ; nor abstain, like him. 
From food of every kind that has contained 
The living essence. — I despise and loathe 
The affected whine of canting sentiment, 
That loves to expatiate on its own fine frame 
Of exquisite perception — nerve all o'er — 
Too tremblingly alive for the mind's peace 
To every shade of delicate distress. 
Such sensitives there are, whose melting souls 
Dissolve in tender pity, or flame out 
With gen'rous indignation, if they see 
A dog chastised, or noxious reptile crushed ! — 
Does a fly tease you, and with impulse quick 
Your dext'rous hand destroys the buzzing pest — 



SENSIBILITY. 47 



Prepare ye for an eloquent appeal 

On the sweet duties of humanity, 

And all the tender charities we owe 

To the poor, pretty, little, helpless things 

" That float in aether." Then some hackneyed verse 

(Your sensitive must doat on poetry) 

She quotes to illustrate the touching theme — 

How "the poor beetle that we tread upon. 

In corp'ral sufferance feels a pang as great 

As when a giant dies." 'Tis odious thus 

To hear the thing one venerates profaned 

By sickly affectation : to my ear 

Doubly distasteful, for I heard the words' 

First from her lips whose heart was pity's throne. 

That voice maternal taught my infant tongue 

To speak the sentence, and my youthful heart 

To feel and cherish, while its pulses beat, 

Mercy and kindness for all living things. 

Go where you will, the sensitive finds out 

Whereon t' expatiate largely ; to pour forth 

The flood of her pathetic eloquence : — 

A plodding clown to market drives along 

His swine obstreperous : right and left they run 

In sheer perversity : so right and left 

Resounds the whip, but scarcely reaches them, 

Whate'er their horrid dissonance implies ; 

No matter — feeling's champion cannot hear 

Unmoved the cry of innocence oppressed ; 

So forth she steps, and speaks, with hand on heart. 

Tender remonstrance to the boor, who stands 

Scratching his bushy pate — with hat pushed up, 

And eyes and mouth distended with surprise. 



48 SENSIBILITY. 

Vented at last when the oration ends 
In one expressive expletive — " Anan !" 

A cart comes by — ah ! painful sight indeed, 
For it conveys, bound fast with cruel cords, 
To the red slaughter-house a bleating load 
Of fleecy victims. Now th' impassioned soul 
Of sensibility finds ample scope 
T' excruciate its own feelings, and their hearts 
Condemned to hear, while she minutely dwells 
On things revolting — " how the murd'rous knife 
Shall stop those bleating throats, and dye with gore 
Those milk-white fleeces." 

Thus expatiates she, 
While feeling turns aside, and hurries on. 

But vulgar suff^'rings, 'mongst the vulgar part 
Of our own species, often. fail to excite 
Those tender feelings that evap'rate half 
O'er flies and earwigs, and expend themselves 
In picturesque affliction. 

" Ah !" cries one, 
" How happy is the simple peasant's lot, 
Exempt from polished life's heart-riving woes, 
And elegant distresses !'' 

Bid them turn 
(Those sentimental chymics, who extract 
The essence of imaginary griefs 
From overwrought refinement), bid them turn 
To some poor cottage — not a bower of sweets 
Where woodbines cluster o'er the neat warm thatch, 
And mad Marias sing fantastic ditties, 
But to some wretched hut, whose crazy walls, 
Crumbling with age and dripping damps, scarce prop 



SENSIBILITY. 49 



The rotten roof, all verdant with decay ; 

Unlatch the door, those starting planks that ill 

Keep out the wind and rain, and bid them look 

At the liome-comforis of the scene within. 

There on the hearth a few fresh-gathered sticks, 

Or smouldering sods, diffuse a feeble warmth, 

Fann'd by that kneeling woman's lab'ring breath 

Into a transient flame, o'erhanging which 

Cowers close, with outspread palms, a haggard form, 

But yesterday raised up from the sick-bed 

Of wasting fever, yet to-night returned 

From the resumption of his daily toil. 

" Too hastily resumed — imprudent man !" 

Ay, but his famish'd infants cried for bread ; 

So he went forth and strove, till nature failed, 

And the faint dews of weakness gathered thick 

In the dark hollows of his sallow cheek. 

And round his white-parched lips. Then home he crawled 

To the cold comforts of that cheerless hearth. 

And of a meal whose dainties are set out 

Invitingly — a cup of coarse black tea, 

With milk unmingled, and a crust of bread. 

No infant voices welcome his return 

With joyous clamour, but the piteous wail, 

" Father ! I'm hungry — Father ! give me bread !" 

Salutes him from the little-huddled group 

Beside that smoky flame, where one poor babe, 

Shaking with ague-chills, creeps shuddering in 

Between its mother's knees — that most forlorn, 

Most wretched mother, with sad lullaby 

Hushing the sickly infant at her breast. 

Whose scanty nourishment yet drains her life. 



Martyrs of sensibility ! look there ! 
6 



SPORTSMEN. 



Relieve in acts of charity to those 
Th' exuberance of your feelings. 

" Ay, but those 
Are horrid objects — squalid, filthy, low 
Disgusting creatures — sentiment turns sick 
In such an atmosphere at such a sight. 
True cottage children are delightful things. 
With rosy dimpled cheeks, and clustering curls ; 
It were an interesting task to dress 
Such pretty creatures in straw cottage-bonnets 
And green stuff gowns, with little bibs and aprons 
So neat and nice ! and every now and then 
(When visitors attend the Sunday school) 
To hear them say their catechism and creed. 
But those ! — Oh heaven! what feelings could endure 
Approach or contact with those dirty things ? 
True — they seem starving ; but 'tis also true 
The parish sees to all those vulgar wants ; 
And when it does not, doubtless there must be 
(Alas ! too common in this wicked world) 
Some artful imposition in the case." 

Martyrs of sensibility ! farewell ! 
I leave ye to your earwigs and your flies. 
But, gentle sportsman ! yet a word with you 
Ere to the starting-point I come again 
From this long ramble unpremeditate. 
Your silvan sports you call most innocent. 
Manly, and healthful. Are they always such ? 
Healthful I grant — for while the sons of sloth 
Doze half their sleepy lives in morning dreams 
Ye are awake and stirring with the lark ; 
And like the lark ye meet on breezy hill, 
In dewy forest glade, on perfumed heath 



SPORTSMEN. 51 



The breath of morning and her I'oseate smile. 

Most healthful practice — and so far most pure. 

But is it innocent, for murderous sport 

To scare sweet peace from her beloved haunts ? 

To sadden and deface with death the scene 

Where all breathes life, and love, and harmony ? 

And is it manly, with assembled rout 

Of horses, dogs, and men, to hunt to death 

A poor defenceless, harmless, fearful wretch. 

The panting hare ? For life — for life she flios. 

And turns, and winds, and doubles in her course 

With art instinctive — unavailing all. 

Now the wild heath, the open plain she tries ; 

Now scuds for refuge to the pleasant brake. 

Where many a morning she was wont to sit 

In her old form, all spangled round with dew ; 

No rest — no respite — danger presses near — 

'Tis at her heels. They burst the thicket now, 

Yet still she moves not — for she cannot move ; 

Stiffened with terror, motionless she sits 

With eyes wide staring, whence (I've heard some say) 

Large tears roll down, and on her panting sides 

The soft fur wet with dews of agony. 

Finish the picture ye who list — I turn 

Disgusted from the task. But can I pass 

Regardless the more lingering, torturing death 

Too oft inflicted ? We behold indeed 

The furred and feather'd trophies of his skill, 

Disgorged from that fell gulf, the sportsman's bag ; 

Not pleasing to all hearts, I trow, the sight 

Of even that lifeless spoil. But could we see — 

Ah ! could we follow to their sad retreats 

Those more unhappy that escape with life, 

But maimed and bleeding. To the forest deptlis 



52 MY HARE. 



They crawl or flutter; there with dabbled plumes 
(All stiff with clotted gore their burnished gold) 
The graceful pheasant cowers beneath some tree, 
Whose pleasant branches he shall mount no more. 
Down droops the shattered wing, and crimson drops 
Mark where the shot has entered in his breast. 
There are no surgeons 'mongst the woodland tribes 
To set such fractures — no purveyors there 
To cater for the wounded, helpless bird ; 
Nay, his own species, with unnatural hate 
(As if, like some of humankind, they feared 
Contagion from approach to misery), 
Drive the poor sufferer from their gay resorts ; 
So to some lonely nook he creeps away 
To starve and die — abandoned and unseen. 

Such wretched fate my little hare's had been, 
But he, whose erring shot performed but half 
Its deadly mission, brought it gently home 
To be my guest and plaything, if it lived ; 
And to my loving care its life was given. 
I nursed it fondly, every want and wish 
Promptly contenting. So I won at last 
Its grateful confidence ; but not like those, 
Beloved of Cowper, did my hare abide 
Long after years in pleased captivity. 
Nature prevailed ; and when the prickl}^ furze 
Girdled our meadow with its golden belt 
Of od'rous blossoms ; to that tempting brake, 
Where harboured some of his own kind, my hare 
Cast many a wistful look, as by my side 
He leapt and frolicked in the garden near ; 
Yet long the powerful instinct he withstood 
Prompting to liberty. Compunctious thought 



MY HARE. 53 



Perhaps it was of gratitude to me 
That kept him still a prisoner on parole. 

How oft in human hearts such strife springs up 

'Twixt inclination and the scrup'lous doubts 

Of rigid conscience ! Bold at first, we cry, 

" Satan, avaunt !" to the seducing fiend, 

And he retires ; but seldom in despair. 

Wise by experience, close at hand lurks he, 

Watching the time through some unguarded chink 

To slip into the " swept and garnished" hold 

Of his old citadel. Perchance disguised 

Like whispering Prudence — or in Feeling's mask — 

Or Reason's pompous robe, he enters in. 

Then Hesitation, with her shaking hand 

And ever-shifting balance, weighs the cause ; 

And if a mote — a hair — a dust prepond 

(No matter how it came there, or why left) 

On Inclination's side, down drops the scale. 

A cause less trivial fixed at last the fate 
Of my poor Puss. One morning by my side 
In that same garden well content she sat 
Nibbling some fresh-picked dainty, when, behold ! 
With horrid bark, in bursts a stranger dog 
(One who had never learnt respect for hares) 
And scents the victim ; but in vain, for they 
Who follow close restrain his savage speed. 
And Puss escapes, o'erleaps the shallow fence, 
And scuds across the mead, and safely gains 
That prickly covert, which beheld from far. 
Had filled her heart with wand'ring wishes long. 

From that day forth the hare (no longer mine) 
6* 



54 . OLD EPHRAIM. 



Made her abode in that same hollow bank 

Thick set with bushes, whence I saw her oft 

Come forth at morn and even to sport and feed ; 

And oft the truant slave, the wild maroon, 

With bold assurance leapt the garden fence 

For purposes of plunder. Base return 

For kind protection to her helpless state 

So long accorded ! nay, extended still 

To shield her from the penalty of guilt ; 

For direful wrath in Ephraim's bosom rose 

(The dragon he, whose guardianship had rule 

Within the garden), when he found at morn 

Traces yet recent of the plunderer's work. 

His early lettuces all nibbled round. 

And ranks of tender peas (his fondest pride !) 

Laid down in patches, where th' audacious thief, 

Squatting composedly, had munched her fill. 

Dire was the wrath of Ephraim ! much raved he 

Of traps, and guns, and vengeance — whence restrained 

By interdiction of the higher powers. 

He muttered 'twixt his teeth reflections keen 

About the blind indulgence oi some folk 

For children's whimsies — " Who could keep, forsooth, 

A garden as it should be kept — not he — 

If noxious varmint was encouraged there ? 

What was the use of hares but for the spit ? 

He wished with all his heart that the whole race 

Was killed and spitted. Every thing he did 

Was crossed and thwarted — mischief was at work 

In every corner. If he could but ketch 

Them folk that meddled when his back was turned 

Among his mouse-traps ! 'Twas a thing unknown 

That mouse-traps should be set from day to day 

With toasted cheese, and never catch a mouse." 



OLD EPHRAIM. \y' 55 



Ah friend ! " there are more things in heaven and earth" 

Than were dreamt of in iliy philosophy. 

Yet Ephraim had his shrewd suspicions too, 

Though darkly hinted. There was meaning couched, 

Tho' liitle terror in his threat'nings vague ; 

For he too loved me well — the kind old man ! 

And would have torn from his own reverend head 

The ^ew white locks ere hurt a hair of mine. 

Who but old Ephraim treasured up for me 

The earliest strawberry, cunningly matured 

On the red plane of sun-reflecting tile ? 

Who laid aside for me the longest string 

Of clear white currants 1 With inviting smile. 

Who dangled temptingly above my head 

Twin cherries 1 — luscious prize ! soon caught and won — 

Who but old Ephraim, for his " little Queen," 

Picked out (his favourite emblem of herself) 

The smallest pippin with the pinkest cheek ? 

It pleased him that I took delight to watch 

His rural labours — that I asked the names 

Of seeds and plants, and when to sow and set, 

And their fixed season to bear flower and fruit. 

With patient seriousness he made reply 

To questions multiplying faster still 

Than he could answer. But it puzzled oft 

His honest head (no learned Pundit he) 

To solve the curious questions I proposed, 

Why such and such things were ; to which most part 

One answer served — incontrovertible. 

Oracular — " they were, because they were." 



Oh ! what a deal of mischief were unmade 
If Ign'rance always on^erplexing points 
Replied as prudently— if folks at least 



56 OLD EPHRAIM. 



Pretended to teach only what they know. 
''^ Young ladies ! how especially for you 
'Twould simplify the training ! No she-Crichtons, 
No petticoat professors would engage 
To teach all 'ologies and 'ographies, 
And every thing in all the world (of course 
Accomplishments included), all complete 
In all their branches. What a load of rubbish, 
Now cramm'd, poor dears ! into your hapless brains, 
Would leave the much abused organ room 
T' expand, and take in healthful nutriment. \ 

Wise — honest Ephraim ! Shall I leave unsung 

Thy skill in fashioning small wooden toys, 

Small tools, adapted to my pigmy grasp ? 

His hand is eagerly stretch'd out on whom. 

Fortune bestows a sceptre ; his no less 

To whom she gives the baton of command, 

The marshal's truncheon ; and she smiles herself 

At his more solemn transport, from beneath 

The penthouse of enormous wig, who eyes 

The seals of office dangling in his reach. 

And bearded infants — babies six feet high, 

Scramble for glitt'ring baubles ; ribbons, stars, 

And garters, that she jingles on a pole 

For prizes to the foremost in the race, 

Or who leaps highest, or with supplest joints 

Who twists, and turns, and creeps, and wriggles best. 

But none with greater eagerness than I 

From Ephraim's hand received the finish'd spada 

Whose small dimension might have served at need 

Some kitchen damsel for a tasting spoon. 

Albeit proportion'd aptly for my use ; 

And other tools he fashioned, rakes and hoes, 



TRAVELLED PUPPIES. 57 

And oh ! sublime perfection of his craft, 

Most precious specimen ! his genius last 

Shaped out a wheelbarrow, and I attain'd 

(Possess'd of that long coveted machine) 

The climax of my wishes. What delight 

To cram it with such offsets, plants, and bulbs 

As Ephraim from his own neat borders cast ; 

Then to wheel off the load (no matter what) 

To my own garden. Nought came then amiss 

Or out of season. Scions of tall trees, 

And bushy shrubs, that, had they taken root 

And flourish'd, would have fill'd the small domain ; 

And ragged pinks, with huge old scraggy roots, 

Past hope of e'er producing flower or bud, 

And plants full blown, that nothing lack'd — but roots. 

But not unfrequently the wheelbarrow 
Was freighted with a living, yelping load — 
Old Chloe's puppies : She the while, poor fool ! 
Trotting beside with anxious look and whine 
Much eloquent of wonder and dismay 
And half-displeased remonstrance, at th' enforced 
And early travels of her progeny. 
Many there are among Creation's Lords 
Whom Fashion wheels abroad (a listless load !) 
As blind and senseless as those noisy whelps, — 
As blind to all the wonders in their way 
Of Art and Nature : with as senseless noise 
Chatt'ring among themselves their mother-tongue 
In foreign lands, disdaining to acquire 
The useless knowledge (spiritless pursuit !) 
Of a strange people's customs, arts, and speech ; 
And who return with minds as unenlarged. 
And skulls as empty, to their native land;. 



68 SYMPATHY. 



As to their kennel Chloe's brood return'd. 
But tlfey, poor innocents ! were safe restored 
With simple unsophisticated minds ; 
While two-legg'd puppies bring a cargo home 
Of affectation, pedantry, and vice. 

It is not all who having eyes can see, 

Or having ears can hear : That truth we learn 

From everyday experience. How it frets 

One's soul to be associated with those 

Deaf hearers, blind beholders ! Frets one more, 

That all the outward organs they possess, 

As it appears unblemish'd. So we're led 

To utter freely what we warmly feel ; 

And then it proves that all the wires and pipes 

That should communicate 'twixt eyes and ears 

And the indwelling Soul, to empty cells 

Lead only, sending back response nor sound. 

Say with a friend we contemplate some scene 
Of nat'ral loveliness, from which the heart 
Drinks in its fill of deep admiring joy ; 
Some landscape scene, all glorious with the glow 
Of summer evening, when the recent shower 
(Transient and sudden) all the dry white road 
Has moistened to red firmness ; every leaf 
(Wash'd from the dust) restored to glossy green ;- 
In such an evening oft the setting Sun, 
Flaming in gold and purple clouds, comes forth 
To take his farewell of our hemisphere ; 
Sudden the face of Nature brightens o'er 
With such effulgence, as no painter's art 
May imitate with faint similitude. 
The rain-drops dripping fast from every spray 



SYMPATHY. 59 



Are liquid topazes ; bright emeralds those 

Set on the green foil of the glist'ning leaves, 

And every little hollow, concave stone, 

And pebbly wheel-track, holds its sparkling pool 

Brimming with molten amber. Of those drops 

The Blackbird lights to drink ; then scatt'ring thick 

A diamond shower among his dusty plumes, 

Flies up rejoicing to some neighb'ring elm. 

And pours forth such a strain as wakens up 

The music of unnumber'd choristers. 

Thus Nature to her great Creator hymns 

An hallelujah of ecstatic praise. 

And are our voices mute ? Oh ! no, we turn 

(Perhaps with glist'ning eyes), and our full heart 

Pour out in rapt'rous accents, broken words, 

Such as require no answer, but by speech 

As little measured, or that best reply. 

Feeling's true eloquence, a speaking look. 

But other answer waits us ; for the friend — 

(Oh ! heaven ! that there are such) with a calm smile 

Of sweet no-meaning gently answers — " Yes, 

Indeed it's very pretty — Don't you think 

I'ts getting late though — time to go to tea ?" 

Some folks will tell you, of all things on earth 

They most like reading ; poetry with them 

Is quite a passion ; but somehow it is. 

They never find a moment's leisure time 

For things they dote on. What a life is theirs ! 

There's the new poem — they would give the world 

To skim it over, but it cannot be ; 

That trimming must be finish'd for the ball. 

liyoii indeed^ who read aloud so well. 

With so much feeling, would but take the book — 



60 SYMPATHY. 



'Tvvould be so nice to listen ! such a treat ! 
And all the while the trimming might go on. 
You cannot have the heart to disappoint 
Wishes express'd so sweetly. Down you sit 
But unreluctant to the task, which soon 
Absorbs your every feeling. 'Tis perhaps 
Of Roderick, that immortal Goth, you read — 
(Immortalized in verse that cannot die 
Till Poesy is dead, and every heart 
Warm'd with her sacred fire a senseless clod). 

The first few pages smoothly on you go, 

Yourself delighted, and delighting much 

(So simply you believe) your hearers too. 

At length a whisper, audibly aside, 

Or cross the table, grates upon your ear, 

And brings you from the region of romance — 

" Dear ! how provoking ! have you seen my thread 1 

— No — here it is — Oh ! pray don't stop — go on 

With that delightful story." 

On you go ; 
But scarce recover from the first rude shock, 
When lo ! a second. Deep debate ensues, 
Grave, solemn, nice, elaborate, profound, 
About the shade of some embroider'd leaf, 
Whether too dark — or not quite dark enough — 
Or whether pea green were not after all 
Fitter than apple green. And there you sit 
Devoutly banning in your secret soul 
Balls, trimmings, and your own too easy faith 
In sympathy from hearers so engross'd. 
" Better leave off," you say, and close the book, 
" Till some more leisure morning." — But at once 
All voices clamour at the barb'rous thought 



SYMPATHY. 



Of such adjournment : — And you recommence, 

Loath and disheartened ; but a lull succeeds 

Of seeming deep attention, and onco more 

The noble song absorbs you, heart and soul. 

That part you reach, where the old Dog who lies 

Beside Rusilla, and, unnoticed, long 

Has eyed the dark-cowl'd Stranger ; all at once 

(Confirm'd by Love's strong instinct) crawls along 

And crouches at his royal Master's feet, 

And licks his hand, and gazes in his face 

" With eyes of human meaning." 

Then — just then, 
When trembling like a harp-string to the touch 
Of some impassion'd harmonist, your voice 
Falters with strong emotion — 

"Oh!" cries she, 
The passion of whose soul is poesy, 
" That dear sweet dog ! — it just reminds me though 
That poor Tonton was wash'd two hours ago, 
And I must go and comb him, pretty love ! 
So for this morning (though it breaks my heart) 
From that dear book I tear myself away." 
Ah ! luckless reader ! wilt thou e'er again 
On such as these expend thy precious breath ? 

Some travell'd exquisites profess a taste 

(" Gusto," they call it) for the sister art — 

For painting. Heaven preserve us from such taste ! 

These learnedly harangue on breadth and depth, 

Gradation, concentration, keeping, tone, 

Tint, glazing, chiaroscuro, and what not. 

At some old picture (moderns cannot pc«nt), 

Some smoke-dyed canvass, where experienced eyes 

In the brown chaos may distinguish for-m, 



62 CONOSCENTI. 



Lo ! where they gaze with reverential awe, 

Peer through the focus of their rounded hand, 

With features screw'd up to the exactest pitch 

Of connoisseurship — fall enraptured back, 

With head aside, and eyes all pucker'd up 

Obliquely glancing — then with folded arms 

They stand entranced, and gaze, and sigh, and gaze, 

And mutter ecstacies between their teeth — 

" Divine ! incomparable ! grand ! unique !" 

Less learn'd critics condescend t' admire 

Some amateur production — yours perhaps ; 

These, little skill'd in jargon technical 

Of conoscenti, murmur gentle praise ; — 

Holding your drawing to their eyes quite close, 

As 'twere a newspaper, and they perplex'd 

To make out the small print. — " Dear me !" they cry, 

" How nice ! how natural ! how very soft !" 

These phrases serve, or some as richly fraught 

With meaning, for all subjects and all styles ; 

Or, if with more discriminating taste, 

They own a preference— it falls, be sure, 

On the most worthless, whose tame character 

Is in this gentle phrase — " So very soft !" 

Inflict not on me, Stars ! the killing blight 
Of such companionship. Oh ! rather far 
Assign me for my intimate and friend 
One who says plainly — " I confess to me 
Painting's but colour'd canvass. Music noise. 
And Poetry prose spoilt ; those rural scenes 
Whereon you gaze enraptured, nothing more 
Than hill, and dale, and water, wooded well 
With stout oak timber groaning for the axe." 



CONOSCENTI. 63 



*Twixt such a heart and mine there must be still 
A bar, oft painfully perceived indeed, 
And never overstepp'd : But I could feel 
Respect — affection — confidence for such. 
If dignified with sound clear-judging sense 
And piety, that gem beyond all price. 
Wherewith compared all gifts are valueless. 

It is not once an age two hearts are set 
So well in unison that not a note 
Jars in their music ; but a skilful hand 
Slurs lightly over the discordant tones, 
And wakens only the full power of those 
That sound in concord. 

Happy, happy those 
Who thus perform the grand concerto — Life ! 



PART THE THIRD 



CONTENTS. 

The Old Mile-stone. — Angling. — Royden Stream. — The Silvan Feast. — Age 
of Intellect. — Afternoon. — Isaac Walton. — A Bitter Night. — The Farmer. 
—The Pet Lamb.— Our Old Garden.— Painting.— The Altar.— Priscilia.— 
Tea Drinking. — Curiosities. — The Cuckoo Clock. — William Gilpin. — The 
Visit.— The Vicarage.— The Study. 

7* 



PART THE THIRD 



Old friend ! old stone ! old way mark ! art thou gone ? 

I could have better spared a better thing 

Than sight of thy familiar shapeless form, 

Defaced and weather-stained. But thus it is 

Where'er I turn me, wheresoe'er I look, 

Change, change, change, change is every where at work 

In all mine ancient haunts. Gramercie though ! 

Reform — improvement is the proper word-— 

We live, God wot, in an improving age, 

And our old world, if it last long enough. 

Will reach perfection. Lo ! conceptions vast 

Germ not alone in patriot statesman's mind 

Or great philanthropist's. Our public men, 

Ours in this rural district nook o' th' world, 

" Armed with a little brief authority," 

Wield it like Jove's own thunder, and affect 

Th' Olympic nod. Would they had nodded off 

Their sapient heads, ere, in an evil hour, 

Beautiful elms ! your spreading branches fell, 

Because, forsooth ! across the King's highway. 

Conspiring with the freeborn "chartered" air, 

Your verdant branches treasonably waved, 

And swung perchance the pendant dewdrops off 

On roof of royal mail, or in the eyes 

Of sleepy coachman, wakened so full well 

For safety of his snoring " four insides," 



68 THE OLD MILE-STONE. 

Unconscious innocents ! — or on his pate — 

His awful pate— ev'n his, mine ancient foe, 

Your ruthless enemy — the man of power. 

Of measurement, and acts of Parliament, 

The great road dragon — man of flinty heart, 

Belike ye showered the- liquid crystal down, 

Irreverend boughs ! and so your fate was sealed. 

But, veteran oak ! what rank offence was thine ? 

In memory of man thou hadst not flung 

One flickering shadow 'thwart the royal road. 

Nor intercepted sunbeam from the head 

Of noontide traveller. Only left of thee 

The huge old trunk, still verdant in decay 

With ivy garlands, and a tender growth 

(Like second childhood) of thine own young shoots ; 

And there, like giant guardian of the pass. 

Thou stood'st, majestic ruin ! thy huge roots 

(Whose every fretted niche and mossy cave 

Harboured a primrose) grappling the steep bank, 

A wayside rampart. Lo ! they've rent away 

The living bulwark now — a ghastly breach, 

A crumbling hollow left to mark its site 

And the proud march of utilitarian zeal. 

And the old thorns are gone — the thorns 1 loved, 
For that in childhood I could reach and pluck 
Their first sweet blossoms. They were low like me, 
Young, lowly bushes, I a little child. 
And we grew up together. They are gone ; 
And the great elder by the mossy pales — 
How sweet the blackbird sang in that old tree ! 
Sweeter, methinks, than now, from statelier shades — 
They've felled that too — the goodly harmless thing ! 
That with its fragrant clusters overhung 



THE OLD MILE-STONE. 69 

Our garden hedge, and furnished its rich store 

Of juicy berries for the Christmas wine 

Spicy and hot, and its round hollow stems 

(The pith extracted) for quaint arrow heads, 

Such as my father in our archery games 

Taught me to fashion. That they've ta'en away, 

And so some relic daily disappears. 

Something I've loved and prized ; and now the last — 

Almost the last — the poor old mile-stone falls. 

And in its place this smooth, white, perked up thing. 

With its great staring figures. 

Well ! well ! well ! 
All's doubtless as it should be. Were my will 
The rule of action, strange results, I doubt. 
Would shock the rational community. 
No farmer round should clip one straggling hedge, 
No road-surveyor change one rugged stone, 
Howe'er illegible its lettered face. 
Nor pare, nor trim, nor chop one craggy bank. 
Nor lop one wayside tree, although its boughs 
Arched all the royal road. I'd have the road 
One bowery arch — what matter if so low 
No mail might pass beneath ? For aught I care 
The post might come on foot — or not at all, 
At least with tidings of the troublous world. 
In short — in short, it's quite as well, perhaps, 
I can but rail — not rule. Splenetic words 
Will not tack on again dissevered boughs, 
Nor set up the old stone ; so let me breathe 
The fulness of a vexed spirit out 
In impotent murmurs. 

Gentles ! could ye guess 
What thoughts, what feelings, what remembrances 
Are in my mind associated with sight 



70 ANGLING. 



Of that cold senseless stone, that shapeless thing 

Which there lies prostrate, ye would smile perhaps. 

But not methinks in scornful wonderment 

At the strange utterings of my wayward mood. 

Here, to this very spot (the guardian hand 

Still clasping mine) with tottering steps I came — 

A good half mile from home — my first long walk — 

The first remembered. Here, the goal attained, 

They set me up on the old stone to rest. 

And called me woman ! — Baby now no more, 

Who walked so stoutly ; filled my lap with flowers, 

And pulled within my reach the woodbine down, 

That I might pluck, with mine own eager hand, 

A wreath for Dido's neck. She sat beside, 

(The grave old creature !) with her large brown eyes 

Intently, as in delegated watch. 

Fixed on her master's child. Soon came the days, 

When Ids companion, his — his only one 

My father's — I became. Proud, happy child ! 

Untiring now, in many a lengthened walk, 

Yet resting oft (his arm encircling me) 

On the old mile- stone, in our homeward way. 

My father loved the patient angler's art ; 
And many a summer day, from early morn 
To latest evening, by some streamlet's side 
We two have tarried ; strange companionship ! 
A sad and silent man ; a joyous child — 
Yet were those days, as I recall them now. 
Supremely happy. Silent though he was. 
My father's eyes were often on his child 
Tenderly eloquent — and his few words 
Were kind and gentle. Never angry tone 
Repulsed me, if I broke upon his thoughts 



ROYDEN STREAM. 71 



With childish question. But I learnt at last — 

Learnt intuitively to hold my peace 

When the dark hour was on him, and deep sighs 

Spoke the perturbed spirit — only then 

I crept a little closer to his side, 

And stole my hand in his, or on his arm 

Laid my cheek softly ; till the simple wile 

Won on his sad abstraction, and he turned 

With a faint smile, and sighed, and shook his head. 

Stooping toward me : so I reached at last 

Mine arm about his neck, and clasped it close, 

Printing his pale brow with a silent kiss. 

That was a lovely brook, by whose green marge, 
We two (the patient angler and his child) 
Loitered away so many summer days ! 
A shallow sparkling stream, it hurried now 
Leaping and glancing amiong large round stones, 
With everlasting friction chafing still 
Their polished smoothness — on a gravelly bed, 
Then softly slipt away with rippling sound. 
Or all inaudible, where the green moss 
Sloped down to meet the clear reflected wave, 
That lipped its emerald bank with seeming show 
Of gentle dalliance. In a dark, deep pool 
Collected now, the peaceful waters slept 
Embayed by rugged headlands ; hollow roots 
Of huge old pollard willows. Anchored there, 
Rode safe from every gale, a silvan fleet 
Of milk-white water lilies ; every bark 
Worthy as those on his own sacred flood 
To waft the Indian Cupid. Then the stream 
Brawling agaim o'er pebbly shallows ran. 
On — on, to where a rustic, rough-hewn bridge, 



72 ROYDEN STREAM. 



All bright with messes and green ivy wreaths, 

Spanned the small channel with its single arch ; 

And underneath, the bank on either side 

Shelved down into the water darkly green 

With unsunned verdure ; or whereon the sun 

Looked only when his rays at eventide 

Obliquely glanced between the blackened piers 

With arrowy beams of orient emerald light 

Touching the river and its velvet marge — 

'Twas there, beneath the archway, just within 

Its rough mis-shapen piles, I found a cave, 

A little secret cell, one large flat stone 

Its ample floor, embedded deep in moss, 

And a rich tuft of dark blue violet. 

And fretted o'er with curious groining dark, 

Like vault of Gothic chapel, was the roof 

Of that small cunning cave — " The Nereid's Grot !" 

I named it learnedly, for I had read 

About Egeria, and was deeply versed 

In heathenish stories of the guardian tribes 

In groves, and single trees, and silvan streams 

Abiding co-existent. So methought 

The little Naid of our brook might haunt 

That cool retreat, and to her guardian care 

My wont was ever, at the bridge arrived, 

To trust our basket, with its simple store 

Of home-made, wholesome cates ; by one at home 

Provided, for our banquet-hour at noon. 

A joyful hour ! anticipated keen 
With zest of youthful appetite I trow, 
Full oft expelling unsubstantial thoughts 
Of Grots and Naids, sublimated fare — 
The busy, bustling joy, with housewife airs 



THE SILViVN FEAST- 73 



(Directress, handmaid, lady of the feast !) 

To spread that " table in the wilderness !" 

The spot selected with deliberate care, 

Fastidious from variety of choice, 

Where all was beautiful : Some pleasant nook 

Among the fringing alders ; or beneath 

A single spreading oak ; or higher up 

Within the thicket, a more secret bower, 

A little clearing, carpeted all o'er 

With creeping strawberry, and greenest moss 

Thick veined with ivy. There unfolded smooth 

The snowy napkin (carefully secured 

At every corner with a pebbly weight). 

Was spread prelusive ; fairly garnished soon 

With the contents (most interesting then) 

Of the well-plenished basket : simple viands, 

And sweet brown bread, and biscuits for dessert, 

And rich, ripe cherries ; and two slender flasks. 

Of cyder one, and one of sweet new milk. 

Mine own allotted beverage, tempered down 

To wholesome thinness by admixture pure 

From the near streamlet. Two small silver cupa 

Set out our grand buffet — and all was done- 

But there I stood immovable, entranced. 

Absorbed in admiration — shifting oft 

My ground contemplative, to re-peruse 

In every point of view the perfect whole 

Of that arrangement, mine own handy work. 

Then glancing skyward, if my dazzled eyes 

Shrank from the sunbeams, vertically bright, 

Away, away, toward the river's brink 

I ran to summon from his silent sport 

My father to the banquet ; tutored well. 

As I approached his station, to restrain 



74 THE SILVAN FEAST. 

All noisy outbreak of exuberant glee ; 

Lest from their quiet haunts the finny prey 

Should dart far off to deeper solitudes. 

The gentle summons met observance prompt, 

Kindly considerate of the famished child : 

And all in order left — the mimic fly 

Examined and renewed, if need required, 

Or changed for other sort, as time of day, 

Or clear or clouded sky, or various signs 

Of atmosphere or water, so advised 

Th' experienced angler ; the long line afloat — 

The rod securely fixed ; then into mine 

The willing hand was yielded, and I led 

With joyous exultation that dear guest 

To our green banquet room. Not Leicester's self, 

When to the hall of princely Kenil worth 

He led Elizabeth, exulted more 

With inward gratulation at the show 

Of his own proud magnificence, than I, 

When full in view of mine arranged feast, 

I held awhile my pleased companion back. 

Exacting wonder — admiration, praise 

With pointing finger, and triumphant " There !" 

Our meal concluded — or, as Homer says, 

" Soon as the rage of hunger was appeased" — • 

And by the way, our temp'rate silvan feast 

Deserved poetic illustration more 

Than those vast hecatombs of filthy swine, 

Where Trojans, Greeks, and half-immortals gorged, 

Sharp'ning their wits for council. Process strange ! 

But most effectual doubtless, as we see 

Clearly illustrated in this our day, 



AFTERNOON. 75 



In this our favour'd isle, where all affairs 
(Glory to Britain's intellectual age !) 
Begin and end with feasting : Statesmen meet 
To eat and legislate ; to eat and hang* 
Judges assemble ; chapters congregate 
To eat and order spiritual affairs ; 
Philhellenists to eat and free the Greeks ; 
Committees of Reform, Relief, Conversion, 
Eat with amazing unction : and so on, 
Throughout all offices, sects, parties, grades, 
Down to the Parish worthies, who assemblef 
In conclave snug to eat, and starve the poor. 

Our banquet over, — nor omitted then 

Grateful acknowledgment for good received 

From Him, whose open hand all living things 

" Filleth with plenteousness,"— my dear companion 

Sought once again the river's flowery marge, 

To me committing (as the spreading out) 

The gath'ring up all fragments of the feast, 

" That nothing might be lost." Instruction wise, 

By simple illustration well enforced ! 

Nor strain'd to Pharisaic meaning hard, 

Forbidding to communicate the good 

Abundantly bestow'd. So lib'ral dole 

I scatter'd round for the small feathei^'d things 

Who from their leafy lodges all about 

* There exists, or did exist, in one of the Channel Islands, a singular con- 
vivial custom connected with the execution of criminals. The members of 
Court meet to celebrate the occasion with a dinner, and a few non-professional 
friends are invited " to come and eat a dead man." 

t It may be almost superfluous to mention that this line, and, .ndeed, the 
whole paragraph, was written previous to the passing of the Municipal Reform 
Bill. 



76 AFTERNOON. 



Had watch'd the strange intruders and their ways ; 
And eyed the feast with curious wistful ness, 
Half longing to partake. Some bold, brave bird, 
He of the crimsom breast, approaching near, 
And near, and nearer, till his little beak 
Made prize of tempting crumb, and off he flew 
Triumphant, to return (permitted thief!) 
More daringly familiar. 

Neatly pack'd 
Napkin and cups, with the diminish'd store 
Of our well-lighten'd basket — largess left 
For our shy woodland hosts some special treat 
In fork'd branch or hollow trunk for him 
The prettiest, merriest, with his frolic leaps 
And jet black sparkling eyes, and mimic wrath 
Clacking loud menace. Yet before me lay 
The long bright summer evening. Was it long, 
Tediously long in prospect ? Nay, good sooth ! 
The hours in Eden never swifter flew 
With Eve yet innocent, than fled with me 
Their course by thy fair stream, sweet Royden Vale ! 

The stream, the mead, herb, insect, flower and leaf, 

Sunbeam and shadow, — all, as I have said, 

Were books to me, companionable things ; 

But lack of other volume, Man's device, 

Was none, when turning from the outspread scroll 

Of beauteous Nature, sweet repose I sought 

In varied pleasure. In a certain pouch, 

Ample and deep, the Fisher's coat within, 

Lurk'd an old clumsy russet cover'd book, 

That with permitted hand extracted thence — 

(I see the smile to the young smiling thief 

Vouching impunity) — for many an hour 



ISAAC WALTON. 77 



Furnish'd enjoyment, flavour'd not the less 

For oft renew'd experience intimate. 

Just where the river with a graceful curve 

Darken'd and deepen'd in the leafy gloom 

Of a huge pollard oak — a snug retreat 

I found me at the foot of that old tree, 

Within the grotto work of its vast roots, 

From whose fantastic arches, high upheaved, 

Sprang plumy clusters of the jewell'd fern. 

And adder's-tongue, and ivy wreaths hung down 

Festooning elegant ; soft greenest moss 

Flooring the fairy cave ; the temper'd light 

(As through an emerald roof) stole gently in, 

Caressingly, and play'd in freckling gleams 

On the dark surface of the little pool, 

Where as it seem'd the ling'ring stream delay'd 

As loath its brawling course to recommence 

In glaring sunshine. Ah ! could we delay 

Time's current, as it bears us through some reach 

Where the rough stream sinks waveless,- peace-embay'd, 

The river at my feet, its mossy bank, 
Clipt by that cavern'd oak my pleasant seat ; 
Still as an image in its carved shrine 
I nestled in my silvan niche, like hare 
Upgather'd in her form, upon my knees 
The open book, o'er which I stooped intent. 
Half-hidden (the large hat flung careless off*) 
In a gold gleaming shower of auburn curls. 
Ah ! gentle Isaac ! by what glamourie 
Chain'd ye the eyes of restless childhood down 
To pages penn'd for other readers far, 
Mature and manly ? What concern of mine 
Thy learn'd lessons to the docile twain, 
8* 



78 ISAAC WALTON. 



Thy sometime pupils ? What concern of mine 
Thy quaint directions how to dress a chub ? 
Or bait the barb'd hook with hapless frog 
" Lovingly handled ?" What concern of mine 
Thy merry meetings at that rural hostel 
With the fair hostess ? lavender i' th' window, 
And « twenty ballads stuck about the wall ?" 
Yet sure I long'd to share of that same chub, 
And took no thought how that unlucky frog 
Relish'd such loving treatment ; and full fain 
Would have made one at that same merry board, 
And drank in with insatiate ear thy words. 
Rich in the truest wisdom, for throughout 
(Hallowing whate'er of homely, quaint, and coarse 
Might shock fastidious taste, less pure than nice) 
The love of God, and Man, and holy Nature 
Breathed like the fragrance of a precious gum 
From consecrated censor. Then those scraps 
From th' olden poets ! " the divine Du Bartas !" 
And " holy Master Herbert !" and Kit Marlowe ! 
Whose ballad by the modest Milkmaid sung 
Combined methought sweet strain of sweetest bird. 
And pleasant melody of trickling rill. 
And hum of bees, and every natural tone 
Most musical. And then what dear delight 
Beneath the sheltering honeysuckle hedge 
To share thy leafy covert, while " the shower* 

* " But turn out of the way a little, good scholar, towards yonder high honey- 
suckle hedge ; there we'll sit and sing, whilst this shower falls so gently upon 
the teeming earth, and gives yet a sweeter smell to the lovely flowers that 
adorn these verdant meadows. Look, under the broad beech-tree I sat down, i 
when I was last this way a-fishing, and the birds in an adjoining grove seemed^ 
to have a friendly contention with an echo, whose dead voice seemed to live inn 
a hollow tree, near to that primrose hill."— Isaac Walton. 



ISAAC WALTON. 79 



Fell gently down upon the teeming earth, 
From the green meadows all with flowers bedeck'd, 
Wakening delicious odours ; while the birds 
Friendly contention, from a grove hard by, 
Held with an echo, whose dead voice did live 
(So seeming) in a hollow tree high up 
Crowning the primrose knoll." Ah ! gentle Isaac ! 
How could I choose but love thy precious book. 
Then in that blessed springtime of my life 
When life was joy, this fair earth paradise, 
And thine a master-key, in its green glades 
Opening innumerous paths ! I love thee still 
With an exceeding love, old batter'd book ! 
And from thy time-discolour'd leaves outsteal 
Methinks sweet breathings of that merry May 
So long o'erpast. My winter is at hand 
(Summer departed, Autumn on the wane), 
But as I read, and dream, and smile, and sigh. 
Old feelings stir within me, old delights 
Kindle afresh, and all the past comes back 
With such a rush, as to its long dried bed 
The waters of a stream for many a year 
Pent from its natural course. 

Oh ! nothing dies — 
Nothing is lost or wholly perisheth 
That God hath called good, and given to Man, 
Worth his immortal keeping. Let them go, 
Let them pass from me like a troubled dream, 
The things of this world ; bitter apples all. 
Like those by the Dead Sea, that mock the eye 
With outward fairness, ashes at the core. 
Let this frail body perish day by day, 
And to the dust go down, and be resolved 
Thereunto — earth to earth : But I shall live 



80 A BITTER NIGHT. 



In spiritual identity unchanged, 
And take with me where happy spirits dwell 
(Through Christ, the door, I hope admittance there) 
All thoughts, desires, affections, memories 
Sealed with the heavenly stamp, and set apart 
(Made worthy) for duration infinite. 

" This is a bitter night for the young lambs," 
My father said, and shivering drew his chair 
Close in to the warm hearth. " The biting air, 
When 1 looked out but now, was thick with snow 
Fast driven in furious gusts — and, hark ! that's hail 
Clattering against the window." 

To the storm 
Listening a moment, with a pitying thought 
For houseless wanderers ; to our dear fire-side 
We turned with grateful hearts, and sweetest sense 
Of comfort and security, that each 
Reflected in the other's face, read plain 
As in a page of some familiar book 
Long learned by heart. 

" Gary ! what makes you sigh 
And look so sad i' th' sudden ?" asked my mother, 
As letting fall my pencil, I rose up, 
And stealing to my father's side, drew close 
The little stool, my own peculiar seat, 
And, leaning on his knee, looked earnest up, 
With that long deep-drawn breath, that ends so oft 
Childhood's reflective pause. 

" I'm thinking, mother, 
Of what my father said about the lambs- — 
What will become of them this bitter night, 
Poor little pretty creatures ? We looked at them 
A long, long while, in our way home to-day, 



THE FARMER. 81 



While with their mothers they were folded up 
By the old shepherd. Some could hardly stand. 
So very weak they were, so very young ! 
Don't you remember, father ! you said then 
A cold hard night would kill them." 

" Did J, child ? 
Well, this is cold enough. But then the shepherd 

Will take good heed to them — and Little girl ! 

Have you not heard, and read, and learnt, how God 
' Tempers the wind to the shorn lamb V So these. 
Helpless and tender as they are, his eye 
Still watcheth, and his guardian care protects."' 

" Oh ! but I wish" unuttered was the wish ; 

For the door opened, and a burly form. 
Much like a walking bear, the hairy cap 
And shaggy wrapping coat, all white with snow, 
Announced by baying house-dogs, and shown in 
With little form by Joe, within the room 
Advanced a step or two, in country fashion, 
Scraping obeisance. Up sprung old Di 
With hostile growling, from her master's feet ; 
But sniffing round the stranger, in a moment 
Dropping her tail, she came contented back 
To her warm station. 

" What's the matter, Farmer, 
That you're abroad so late this blust'rous night ?" 
My father, with a friendly greeting, asked. 
" My little lassie, here, was just bewailing 
For your young lambs — but they're all snug, I guess." 

" Ay, ay, sir ! thank ye kindly, snug enough ; 
And many thanks to miss, God bless her heart !" 
He added, with a loving look at me, 



S2 THE PET LAMB. 



Who had stolen round by this to my old friend, 
Admiring much his bruin-like aspect. 
A knowing twinkle with that loving look 
Was mingled ; and his bluff good-natured face 
Brightened with kindliness, as he went on : — 

*' I'll lay my life on't, Miss will never guess 
What I've got here, all cuddled up so warm 
Under my old great coat. And yet. Lord love her ! 
The thing's for her, whatever it may be !" 

Then there was wonder and impatient joy, 
And jumping round and round, and 

" Oh, dear Farmer ! 
Is it alive ? — what is it ? — let me look — 
Only one peep." — And eagerly I pulled 
At the wet shaggy coat. 

"Justletme/eeZ.'" 
Then with feigned caution he admitted slow 
One little curious hand. 

" How soft — how warm ! — 
It's a young kitten !" 

" Kitten ! — sure I'd scorn 
To bring such vermin." 

" Well, a rabbit, then — 
Or — no — I'm sure now it's a guinea pig — 
Isn't it, Farmer ?" 

" Guinea pigs don't bleat — 
Harken !" 

« Oh mercy !— it's a little lamb !" 

*'My Missis said 'twas just the thing for Miss, 

When Amos brought it in an hour agone 

From the dead ewe. The poor dumb brute had three, 



THE PET LAMB. 



This only living ; well enough for strength. 
Considering : and Miss will mud* it up 
I know, as clever as a little queen, 
If I may leave it for her." 

If !— that if 
Checked in a moment my ecstatic fit. 
And a quick glance imploringly I turned 
To the parental faces. Smiles were there, 
But not consenting ones — and heads were shaken, 
And sage remonstrance was preparing plain. 
And lips were opened ; but I stopt them quick 
With smothering kisses, and — the lamb was mine. 
And thanks to Lydia, maiden most expert 
In things pertaining to the dairy's charge, 
And country matters — ever mine ally, 
Ready and faithful — the small creature throve 
As though the mother's milk and her strong love 
(Nature's unerring course) had nurtured it ; 
And from a tender fondling, soon became 
My mate and playfellow. Such friends we were — 
Willy and I ! Inseparable friends. 
In door and out — up-stairs and down — where'er 
My step was heard, the little pattering hoofs 
Close following, or before me, sounded too. 
Only at lesson time awhile disjoined 
The fond companionship. Good reason why — 
The pupil never much renowned at best 
For patient application ; little chance 
Was there of any, when that gamesome thing 
Made scoff of learning, and its teachers grave ; 
Upsetting inkstands — nibbling copy-books — 
And still provoking to irreverend mirth 

* Mud — Provincial. . 



84 THE PET LAMB. 



With some new merry mischief. 

Time went on 
(More wondrous had he stopt), and winsome Willy, 
The pet lamb still, drew near to ram's estate — 
Then 'gan affairs to alter. Budding horns, 
Fondled at first, grew formidable things, 
And pretty freedoms to audacious onslaughts. 
Old Di was sent off howling — from the lines 
Linen hooked down and tattered — maids laid sprawling- 
And visitors attacked, and butchers' boys, 
And bakers, with their trays and baskets butted, 
And forced to fly and halloo for their lives. 
Our mutual love still perfect, I alone 
Scaped molestation, threatening life or limb ; 
Only for summer wear more cool and airy 
The muslin frocks were made, by sundry slits 
From top to bottom, and large eyelet holes ; 
But that was all in sport — no harm intended — 
And I the last to take offence at thinors 

o 

Concerning only those who had to mend 
Or to replace my wardrobe. But all hearts 
Were not so placable, and day by day 
Dark looks and angry murmurs darker grew. 
And waxed more wrathful. 

" 'Twas not to be borne . 
The beast was dangerous : some serious mischief 
Would come of it at last; it must be seen to." 
Oh Willy ! Willy ! how I quaked for fear 
At those vague threatenings, with ingenious art 
Concealing or excusing as I could 
Thine oft delinquencies. But all in vain ; 
The fatal day, long dreaded, came at last. 
It was the time of blossoms, and my father, 
Who in '' trim gardens" much delight did take, 



THE PET LAMB. 85 



Was scanning with a gardener's pride ful eye 

His neat espaliers ; every well-trained branch 

Thick set with bloom — deep blushing like the morn, 

Or fainter tinged, or snow-white, of each sort 

Indicative, and its abundant fruit. Fair show ! 

Rich promise ! Many a season cold, unkind. 

Had nipped the gardener's hope since such was seen — 

" If frost returns not, and no cruel blight 

Comes near us" — with exultant hope broke forth 

My father's meditation — when, alas ! 

Destruction was at hand, and in mid speech 

He stopt astounded. Frost nor blight most dire 

So direful as the sight of visible mischief 

Personified in Willy's form, at work 

Ten paces off, where thick as snow flakes fell 

A shower of milk-white blossoms. Glorious sport ! 

Another butting charge, and down they come, 

Whitening the walk and border. 

"Help! help! help! 
Ho, Ephraim ! Ephraim !" At the call appear 
More than the summoned — rushes out amain 
The gaping household, mistress, maids, and man. 
And I, half guilty, much confounded cause 
Remote, of all the evil, helpless then 
To stay its progress. 

" Here he is — here ! here ! 
Stop him — he's off again !" 

" Where ? where ?" " There, there V 
Down comes the flowery rain — that shake will do 
For the old golden rennet — fair pearrnain ! 
Thy turn comes next — and next — 

" Destruction ! death ! 
There goes the gansels bergamy — will no one 
Stop the cursed brute ?" 



4 



9 



86 THE PET LAMB. 



How beautiful he looked ! 
(Even in my shame and terror so I thought), 
When at safe distance he stood still and gazed 
At his pursuers with provoking air 
Of innocent wonder, dangling from his mouth 
A bunch of apple blossoms, now and then 
Mumbled in wantonness. 

" Confound him ! there ! 
He's at the golden pippin — Where's the gun ? 
Joe ! run and fetch it — or — hold, hold — a rope ! 
We'll noose the rascal !" 

Oh my heart ! my heart ! 
How died ye at the sound of guns and ropes ! 
But capture was not death — and he was caught, 
Caught and led up to judgment. Willy ! Willy ! 
That ever to such strait and to such wo 
Thine evil courses should have brought us both ! 
For the decree went forth that parted us — 
Thou to return to thy first owner's flock, 
And I {bereaved !) to mourn my merry mate. 
Ah doleful day ! when for the last, last time 
We two went forth together — thou, poor fool ! 
In thine unconscious gladness by my side 
Trotting contentedly, tho' every step 
Took thee to exile nearer, and my tears 
Fell fast as summer rain drops. How I clung 
(When to the farm we came) with sobbing clasp 
About thy snowy neck ! refusing comfort. 
Although they told me, to assuage my grief, 
A many flattering tales of good designed. 
Peculiar good to thee. Thou wert to range 
For life respected — master of the flock — 
To crop the sweetest herbage, and be housed, 
When winter came, in warm luxurious crib. 



OUR OLD GARDEN. 



" But shall I see him sometimes ?" 

" Ay, ay, sure. 
Often and often, when the flock comes back 
From the far pastures." 

Back it came — alas ! 
I saw not Willy — saw him never more ; 
But half deluded still by glozing words, 
I thought not (witless!) of the butcher's cart, 
Nor transmutation fell, by murderous sleight 
Of sheep to mutton. To thy manes peace, 
Offending fav'rite ! wheresoe'er thy grave. 

Dear garden ! once again with lingering look 
Reverted, half remorseful, let me dwell 
Upon thee as thou wert in that old time 
Of happy days departed. Thou art changed, 
And I have changed thee — Was it wisely done ? 
Wisely and well, they say who look thereon 
With unimpassioned eye — cool, clear, undimmed 
By moisture such as memory gathers oft 
In mine, while gazing on the things that are 
Not with die hallowed past, the loved, the lost 
Associated as those I now retrace 
With tender sadness. The old shrubbery walk 
Straight as an arrow, was less graceful far 
Than this fair winding among flowers and turf, 
Till with an artful curve it sweeps from sight 
To reappear again, just seen and lost 
Among the hawthorns in the little dell. 
Less lovely the old walk, but there I ran 
Holding my mother's hand, a happy cliild ; 
There were her steps imprinted, and my father's, 
And those of many a loved one, now laid low 
In his last resting place. No flowers methinks 



88 PAINTING. 



That now I cultivate are half so sweet, 

So bright, so beautiful as those that bloomed 

In the old formal borders. These clove pinks 

Yield not such fragrance as the true old sort 

That spiced our pot-pourrie (my mother's pride) 

With such peculiar richness ; and this rose, 

With its fine foreign name, is scentless, pale, 

Compared with the old cabbage — those that blushed 

In the thick hedge of spiky lavender — 

Such lavender as is not now-a-days ; 

And gillyflowers are not as they were then 

Sure to " come double ;" and the night breeze now 

Sighs not so loaded with delicious scents 

Of lily and sevinger. Oh, my heart ! 

Is all indeed so altered ? — or art thou 

The changeling, sore aweary now at times 

Of all beneath the sun ? 

Such weariness 
Knows not that blessed springtime of the heart 
When " treasures dwell in flowers." How glad was I, 
How joyously exultant, when I found 
Such virtues in my flowery treasury 
As hitherto methought discoverer's eye 
Had passed unheeded ! Here at once I found, 
Unbought, unsued for, the desired command 
(How longingly desired !) of various dyes, 
Wherewith to tint the semblance incomplete 
In its hard pencil outline, of those forms 
Of floral loveliness, whose juices now 
Supplied me with a palette of all hues, 
Bright as the rainbow. Brushes lacked I none 
For my rude process, the soft flower or leaf 
Serving for such ; its moisture nice expressed 
By a small cunning hand, where'er required 



THE ALTAR. 89 



The imitative shadow to perfect 
With glowing colour. Heavens ! how plain I see, 
Ev'n at this moment, the first grand result 
Of that occult invention. There it lies, 
Living as life itself (I thought no less), 
A sprig of purple stock, that dullest eye 
Must have detected, and fault-finding critic 
Have owned at least a likeness. Mother's love 
Thought it perfection, when with stealing step 
And flushing face and conscious, I drew near 
And laid it on her lap without a word ; 
Then hung upon her shoulder, shrinking back 
With a child's bashfulness, all hope and fear, 
Shunning and courting notice ; 

But I kept 
Profoundly secret, certain floral rites 
Observed with piously romantic zeal 
Through half a summer. Heaven forgave full sure 
The unconscious profanation, and the sin, 
If sin there was, be on thy head, old friend, 
Pathetic Gesner ! for thy touching song ■ 

(That most poetic prose) recording sad ' 

The earliest annals of the human race. 
And death's first triumph, filled me, heart and brain, 
With stirring fancies, in my very dreams 
Exciting strange desires to realize. 
What to the inward vision was revealed, 
Haunting it like a passion. For I saw, 
Plain as in substance, that first human home 
In the first earthly garden ; — saw the flowers 
Set round her leafy bower by banished Eve, 
And watered with her tears, as they recalled 
Faintly the forfeit Eden ; the small rills 
She taught to wander 'mongst their blooming tribes, 
9* 



90 THE ALTAR. 



Completing — not the semblance, but the shade. 
But beautiful, most beautiful methought 
The altar of green turf, whereon were laid 
Offerings as yet unstained with blood — choice fruits, 
And fairest flowers fresh culled. 

"And God must still,"— 
So with myself I argued — " surely love 
Such pure, sweet offerings. There can be no harm 
In laying them, as Eve was wont, each day 
On such an altar ; — what if I could make 
Something resembling that !" To work I went 
With the strong purpose, which is strength and power ; 
And in a certain unfrequented nook 
Of our long rambling garden, fenced about 
By thorns and bushes, thick with summer leaves, 
And threaded by a little water-course 
(No substitute contemptible methought 
For Eve's meandering rills), uprose full soon 
A mound of mossy turf, that when complete, 
I called an altar ; and with simple faith — 
Ay — and with feelings of adoring love 
Hallowing the childish error — laid thereon 
Daily my floral tribute — yet from prayer, 
Wherewith I longed to consecrate the act. 
Refraining with an undefined fear 
(Instinctive) of offence : and there was doubt 
Of perfect blamelessness (unconscious doubt) 
In the suspicious, unrelaxing care 
With which I kept my secret. All's not well, 
When hearts, that should be open as the day, 
Shrink from inspection. So by slow degrees 
I grew uneasy and afraid, and longed 
To cast off the strange burthen — and at last, 
Ceasing my visits to " the sacred grove," 



PRISCILLA. 91 



I soon forgot, absorbed in fresh pursuits, 

The long neglected altar — till one day, 

When coming winter, with his herald blasts 

Had thinned the covert's leafiness, I saw 

Old Ephraim in his clearing progress pause, 

And strike his spade against a mossy heap. 

Washed low by autumn's rains, and littered round 

Among the thick strewn leaves, with spars and shells, 

And broken pottery, and shrivell'd things 

That had been garlands. 

" This is Missy's work," 
Quoth the old man, and shook his head, and smiled — 
" Lord bless her ! how the child has toiled and moiled 
To scrape up all this rubbish. Here's enough 
To load a jackass !" 

Desecrated shrine ! 
Such was thy fate, demolished as he spoke ; 
And of my Idyl, the concluding page. 

" The Thane of Fife"^said some one — " hath a wife," 

And so had Ephraim — a precise old dame. 

Looking like ancient waxwork ; her small face 

Of lemon-coloured hue (framed closely round 

With most elaborate quilling) puckered up 

To such prim fixedness, the button mouth 

Scarcely relaxed into a button hole 

When with a smile distended ; and the eyes, 

(Two small black beads) but twinkled, never moved. 

And mincing was her speech, and picked withal. 

Dainty and delicate, as was her frame. 

Like an old fairy's. She had spent her youth. 

And prime, and middle age — two thirds of life — 

In service of a maiden gentlewoman 

Of the old buckram sort, wellnigh extinct ; 



9^ PRISCILLA. 



Prudent, and formal, and fantastical, 

Much given to nervous tremors, and hysterics, 

Flutterings, and qualms, and godly books, and tales 

Of true love crossed, and dreams, and pious courtship. 

Of that soft sisterhood was Mistress Martha, 

On one-legged bullfinches and wheezing lapdogs 

Who lavish sympathies long run to waste, 

" Since that unhappy day" — ('twas her own phrase 

Mysterious, unexplained) oft hinted at 

In memory's melting mood to faithful Prissey, 

With sighs deep fetched, and watery upturned eyes 

Glancing unutterable things, where hung 

Enshrined in shagreen case, a miniature 

Set round with garnets, in a true love knot 

Wreathed at the top ; the portraiture within 

Of a slim, pink and white young gentleman 

In bag and solitaire, and point cravat, 

With a peach blossom coat — " Ah Prissey ! Prissey ! 

Good girl ! remember." So the lady still 

Addressed her handmaiden, when forty years 

And five full told, her girlhood had matured — 

" Men are deceivers all — put no faith in them ; 

But live and die a chaste and peaceful maid." 

With decent grief, Priscilla to the grave 

Followed her monitress ; and that day month 

To Ephraim (who had waited for his wife 

With patriarchal patience), nothing loath. 

Plighted her virgin troth. 

Came with the bride 
Into her husband's long prepared home. 
In carved oak chest, and trunks with gilded nails, 
Curiously flourished, store of household stuff. 
And goodly raiment — of the latter, much 
Unfitting wear, for decent humble folk 



PRISCILLA. 03 



Knowing their station, as full well did they, 

Keeping thereto, with sense of self-respect 

Ensuring that of others. But Priscilla 

(A favoured handmaiden, and privileged). 

Accustomed long to copy (half unconscious) 

Her lady's speech, and habits, and attire — 

I well remember now her puffed out kerchief. 

Closed with a garnet pin, her black fringed mils. 

And narrow velvet collar — thought no wrong 

On Sundays, and on suitable occasions. 

To come f^rth, awful to the cottage children, 

In rustling pomp of some grave coloured lustring, 

Sprigged muslin apron, short black satin cloak 

(A thought embrowned with age, but handsome still). 

Edged ro'^nd with rabbit skin, and on her head. 

By long black pins secured to cap and cushion, 

A bonnet — Mistress Martha's second best — 

A velvet skimming dish, flounced round with lace 

Darned to a double pattern. Then her shoes ! 

Black velveteen, high-heeled, with silver buckles. 

So in her glory did Priscilla shine 

On holidays and high days. Then her wits 

(In housewifery expedients rich) were taxed 

To cut, convert, turn, twist, transmogrify 

Incongruous elements to useful ends. 

Triumph of female skill ! — as by enchantment, 

Even at the waving of the magic shears. 

Sacks, petticoats, and negligees, became 

Waistcoats and breeches. Shade of Mistress Martlia ! 

Saw ye the desecration ? So on Sundays, 

Donning brocaded vest, and nether garment 

Quilted like wise King Jamie's — warm and rich — 

His goad drab broadcloth coat with basket buttons 

(Heir'd from his grandsire) making all complete 



U4 PRISCILLA. 



Of Ephraim's outward man ; forth sallied he, 

Doing discredit none to her whose eye 

Glanced side-long approbation, as they took 

Leisurely, arm in arm, the churchward way. 

No scholarship had Ephraim. A plain man, 

Plain spoken, chary of his words was he. 

But full of reverence for Priscilla's claims 

To knowledge, learning, and superior breeding. 

Deep read was she in varied lore profound, — - 

Divinity, Romance, and Pharmacy, 

And — so the neighbours whispered — in deep things 

Passing the Parson's wisdom. Store of books 

(The richest portion of the bridal dower) 

Were ranged in goodly order on two shelves 

(The third and topmost with choice porcelain piled), 

Surmounting an old walnut-tree bureau ; 

The Holy Bible, cased in green shaloon, 

And Book of Common Prayer (a fine black type) 

Were laid conspicuous on the central spot. 

As first in honour : flank'd on either side 

By Taylor's Golden Grove, The Pilgrim's Progress, 

And Fox's Book of Martyrs. How I loved 

To ransack those old tawny, well-thumb'd leaves. 

Supping my fill of horrors! Sermons too — 

(Discourses hydra-headed) had their place, 

And " Hervey's Meditations 'mongst the Tombs/' 

With courtly Grandison and Pamela 

(All full of cuts — supreme delight to me !) 

And the true history — sweetly scented name ! 

Of Jemmy and fair Jenny Jessamy. 

Then came a ragged row of Magazines, 

And songs, and hymn-books. — " Kettlewell on Dcatu, 

And " Glass's Cookery." Treatises abstruse 



TEA-DRINKING. 95 



On Moles and Warts, and virtues of all herbs, 

And ailments manifold that flesh is heir to. 

Whai ?vonaer if respect akin to awe 

For her who own'd and studied those grave tomes 

Impress'd the simple neighbours ? For m3^self — 

— Unblushingly I do confess it now — 

Not without tremor, half delight, half fear, 

I enter'd, clinging to the Nursemaid's hand. 

Through the dipt laurel porch, that small neat room, 

So nicely sanded round the clean swept hearth. 

Where sat expectant — (Mistress Jane I trow 

Had her appointments for occult discourse 

And cup of fragrant Hyson) — the wise woman 

With her strange primm'd up smile ; the round claw table 

Set out before her with its precious freight 

(In Sheffield tea-tray) of old real china, 

The sugar-basin a scoop'd cocoa-nut 

Curiously carved all o'er and ebon stain'd. 

On three small toddling silver feet, rimm'd round 

With the same precious metal ; silver tongs 

Stuck for effect among the sparkling knobs. 

With two thin tea-spoons of the treasured six ; 

There on its trivot the bright kettle sang, 

Its cheek all ruddy with rich fire-light glow ; 

And piping hot the butter'd oven-cake 

Smoked on the fender ledge, all ready quarfer'd ; 

Inviting preparations ! not alone 

To black-eyed Jane : the treat had charms for me 

More irresistible ; — that butter'd cake ! ^ 

— Forbidden dainty — tea with cream and sugar ! 

True, hni just finish'd was my nursery meal — 

Dry bread and milk and water. " What of that ? 

The precious lamb had walk'd a weary way, 

And sure must need refreshment. One small piece 



96 CURIOSITIES. 



Of nice hot butter'd cake would do her good, 

And tea, a saucer-full, to wash it down.'' 

So urged the Dame : Jane shook her head and smiled. 

Conscience made faint resistance, — the rich steam 

Rose fragrant to my nostrils, and — I fell. 

My treat despatch'd, the Maid and Matron turned 

To whisper'd consultation, leaving me 

(Right glad) to seek amusement as I would. 

No lack of that, though I had staid for hours. — ■ 

There was the cat and kitten — always one, 

A creature of immortal kittenhood, 

For whom, suspended by a worsted thread 

To knob of dresser drawer, a bobbing cork 

Dangled, perpetual plaything ; there aloft 

Among the crock'ry stood a small stufT'd pug, 

Natural as life, tight curl'd up tail and all, 

And eyes that glared a snarl ; and there i' the sun 

A venerable one-eyed cockatoo 

With gouty legs, snored dozing in his cage — 

A sacred trust ! by dying lips consign'd. 

With his life income, to Priscilla's care. 

Then there were prints and pictures hung all round — 

Prints of the parables, and one rare piece, 

A landscape — castles, clouds, trees, men, and sheep, 

All featherwork ! Priscilla when ^e died 

Bequeath'd it to me. Poor old harmless soul ! 

That ever half-afraid I should have shrank, 

Scarce knowing why, from one who loved me kindly : 

But then she look'd so strangely, and they said 

Such strange things of her. 

Well ! and then — and then — 
There was the Book of Martyrs, and The Pilgrim, 
And fifty other rarities and treasures ; 



THE CUCKOO CLOCK. 97 



But chief — surpassing all — a cuckoo clock ! 

That crowning wonder! miracle of art ! 

How have I stood entranced uncounted minutes, 

With held-in breath, and eyes intently fix'd 

On that small magic door, that when complete 

Th' expiring hour — the irreversible — 

Flew open with a startling suddenness 

That, though expected, sent the rushing blood 

In mantling flushes o'er my upturn'd face ; 

And as the bird (that more than mortal fowl !) 

With perfect mimicry of natural tone, 

Note after note exact time's message told. 

How my heart's pulse kept time with the charm'd voice ! 

And when it ceased made simultaneous pause 

As the small door clapt to, and all was still. 

Long did I meditate — yea, often dream 
By day and night, at school-time and at play — 
Alas ! at holiest seasons, even at church 
The vision haunted me, — of that rare thing, 
And his surpassing happiness to whom 
Fate should assign its fellow. Thereupon 
Sprang up crude notions, vague incipient schemes 
Of future independence : Not like those 
Fermenting in the youthful brain of her 
Maternally, on fashionable system, 
Train'd up betimes i' the way that she should go 
To the one great end — a good establishment. 
Yet similar in so77ie sort were our views 
Toward contingent power. " When I'm a woman 
I'll have," quoth I, — so far the will and when 
Tallied exactly, but our difference lay 
Touching the end to be achieved. With me, 
.Not settlements, and pin-money, and spouse 
10 



98 WILLIAM GILPIN. 



Appendant, but in unencumber'd right 

Of womanhood — a house and cuckoo clock ! 

Hark ! as I hang reflective o'er my task, 

The pen fresh nibb'd and full, held idly yet ; 

What sound comes clicking through the half-closed door, 

Distinct, monotonous ? — 'Tis even so ; 

Years past, the pledge (self-plighted) was redeem'd ; 

There hangs with its companionable voice 

The cuckoo clock in this mine house. — Ay, mine ; 

But left unto me desolate. Such end 

Crowns oft Ambition's most successful aim 

(Success than disappointment more defeating) ; 

Passionate longing grasps the ripen 'd fruit 

And finds it marr'd, a canker at the core : 

What shall I dare desire of earthly good 

The seeming greatest ; what in prayer implore 

Or deprecate, of that my secret soul 

In fondness and in weakness covets most 

Or deepest dreads, but with the crowning clause, 

The sanctifying — " Lord ! thy will be done ?" 

Farther a-field we journey'd, Jane and I, 
When summer days set in, with their long, light 
Delicious evenings. Then — most happy child ! 
Most favour'd ! I was sent a frequent guest, 
Secure of welcome, to the loveliest home 
Of all the country, o'er whose quiet walls 
Brooded the twin-doves — Holiness and Peace : 
There with thine aged partner didst thou dwell. 
Pastor and master ! servant of thy Lord, 
Faithful as he, the labours of whose love 
Recorded by thy pen, embalm for aye 
The name of Gilpin heired by thee — right heir 



WILLIAM GILPIN— THE VICARAGE. 99 



Of the saint's mantle. Holy Bernard's life, - 

Its apostolic graces unimpaired, 

Renewed in William's, virtuous parish priest ! 

Let me live o'er again, in fond detail, 

One of those happy visits. Leave obtained, 

Methought the clock stood still. Four hours past noon, 

And not yet started on our three mile walk ! 

And six the vicarage tea hour primitive, 

And I should lose that precious hour, most prized, 

When in the old man's study, at his feet, 

Or nestling close beside him, I might sit 

With eye, ear, soul intent on his mild voice. 

And face benign, and words so simply wise, 

Framed for his childish hearer. " Let us go !" 

And like a fawn I bounded on before. 

When lagging Jane came forth, and off we went. 

Sultry the hour, and hot the dusty way, 

Though here and there by leafy ski^een o'erarched— 

And the long broiling hill ! and that last mile 

When the small frame waxed weary ! the glib tongue 

Slackening its motion with the languid limbs. 

But joy was in my heart, howe'er suppressed 

Its outward show exuberant; and, at length, 

Lo ! the last turning — lo ! the well-known door, 

Festooned about with garlands picturesque. 

Of trailing evergreens. Who's weary, now ? 

Sounding the bell with that impatient pull 

That quickens Mistress Molly's answering steps 

To most unusual promptness — turns the lock — 

The door uncloses — Molly's smiling face 

Welcomes unasked. One eager, forward spring, 

And farewell to the glaring world without; 

The glaring, bustling, noisy, parched-up world ! 



100 WILLIAM GILPIN— THE STUDY. 

And hail repose and verdure, turf and flowers, 
Perfume of lilies, through the leafy gloom 
White gleaming ; and the full, rich, mellow note 
Of song thrush, hidden in the tall thick bay 
Beside the study window ! 

The old house 
Through flickering shadows of high-arching boughs. 
Caught gleams of sunlight on its time-stained walls, 
And frieze of mantling vine ; and lower down. 
Trained among jasmines to the southern bow, . 
Moss roses, bursting into richest bloom. 
Blushed by the open window. There she sate^ 
The venerable lady (her white hair 
White as the snowy coif), upon her book 
Or needlework intent ; and near at hand 
The maiden sister friend (a life long guest) 
At her coarse sempstresship — another Dorcas, 
Unwearying in the work of charity. 

Oh ! kindest greeting ! as the door unclosed 

That welcomed the half-bold, half-bashful guest ; 

And brought me bounding on at a half word 

To meet the proffered kiss. Oh kindest care ! 

Considerate of my long, hot, dusty walk. 

Of hat and tippet that divested me, 

And clinging gloves ; and from the glowing cheek 

And hot brow, parted back the clustering curls. 

Applying grateful coolness of clear lymph, 

Distilled from fragrant elder — sovereign wash 

For sunburnt skin and freckled ! Kindest care, 

That followed up those offices of love 

By cautionary charge to sit and rest 

" Quite still till tea time." Kindest care, I trow, 

But little relished. Restless was my rest. 



WILLIAM GILPIN— THE STUDY. 101 

And wistful eyes still wandering to the door, 
Revealed " the secret of my discontent/' 
And told where I would be. The lady smiled, 
And shook her head, and said, — 

" Well ! go your ways 
And ask admittance at that certain door 
You know so well." All weariness was gone — 
Blithe as a bird, thus freed, away I flew, 
And in three seconds at the well-known door 
Tapped gently ; and a gentle voice within 
Asking " Who's there ?" '• It's we," I answered low, 
Grammatically clear. " Let me come inJ^ 
The gentle voice rejoined ; and in I stole. 
Bashfully silent, as the good man's smile, 
And hand extended, drew me to his chair ; 
And there, all eye and ear, I stood full long, 
Still tongueless, as it seemed ; love-tempering awe 
Chaining my words up. But so kindly his, 
His aspect so benign, his winning art 
So graciously conforming ; in short time 
Awe was absorbed in love, and then unchained 
By perfect confidence, the little tongue 
Questioned and answered with as careless ease 
As might be, from irreverend boldness free. 
True love may cast out fear, but not respect, 
That fears the very shadow of offence. 

How holy was the calm of that small room ! 
How tenderly the evening light stole in. 
As 'twere in reverence of its sanctity I 
Here and there touching with a golden gleam 
Book-shelf or picture-frame, or brightening up 
The nosegay set with daily care (love's own) 
Upon the study table. Dallying there 
10=^ 



102 WILLIAM GILPIN— THE STUDY. 



Among the books and papers,, and with beam 
Of softest radiance, starring like a glory 
The old man's high bald head and noble brow — 
There still I found him, busy with his pen — 
(Oh pen of varied power ! found faithful ever. 
Faithful and fearless in the one great cause) — 
Or some grave tome, or lighter work of taste 
(His no ascetic, harsh, soul-narrowing creed), 
Or that unrivalled pencil, with few strokes. 
And sober tinting slight, that wrought effects 
Most magical — the poetry of art ! 
Lovely simplicity ! (true wisdom's grace) 
That condescending to a simple child. 
Spread out before me hoards of graphic treasures ; 
Smiling encouragement, as I expressed 
Delight or censure (for in full good faith 
I played the critic), and vouchsafing mild 
T' explain or vindicate ; in seeming sport 
Instructing ever ; and on graver themes 
Winning my heart to listen, as he taught 
Things that pertain to life. 

Oh precious seed ! 
Sown early ; soon, too soon the sower's hand, 
The immediate mortal instrument withdrawn, 
Tares of this evil world sprang thickly up 
Choking your promise. But the soil beneath 
(Nor rock nor shifting sand) retained ye still, 
God's mercy willing it, until his hand. 
Chastening as fathers chasten, cleared at last 
Th' encumbered surface, and the grain sprang up.- 
But hath it flourished ? — hath it yet borne fruit 
Acceptable ? Oh Father ! leave it not 
For lack of moisture yet to fall away ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE CHURCHYARD 



The thought of early death was in my heart ; 
Of the dark grave, and "dumb forgetfuhiess;" 

And with a weight like lead. 

And overwhelming dread, 
Mysteriously my spirit did oppress. 



And forth I roamed in that distressful mood 
Abroad into the sultry, sunless day ; 
All hung with one dark cloud, 
That like a sable shroud 
On Nature's deep sepulchral stillness lay. 

Black fell the shadows of the churchyard elms 
(Unconsciously my feet had wandered there), 
And through that awful gloom — 
Head-stone and altar tomb 
Among the green heaps gleam'd with ghastlier glare. 

Death — death was in my heart, as there I stood, 
Mine eyes fast fixed upon a grass-grown mound ; 

As though they would descry 

The loathsome mystery 
Consummating beneath that charnel ground. 

Death — death was in my heart. Methought I felt 
A heavy hand, that pressed me down below ; 



106 THE CHURCHYARD. 



And some resistless power 
Made me, in that dark hour. 
Half long to he, where I abhorred to go. 

Then suddenly, albeit no breeze was felt, 

Through the tall tree-tops ran a shiv'ring sound — 
Forth from the western heaven 
Flashed out the flaming levin. 
And one long thunder-peal rolled echoing round. 

One long, long echoing peal, and all was peace ; 

Cool rain-drops gemm.ed the herbage — large and few ; 

And that dull vault of lead, 

Disparting over head, 
Down beamed an eye of soft celestial blue. 

And up toward the heavenly portal sprang 
A skylark, scattering off the feathery rain — 

Up from my very feet ; — 

And oh ! how clear and sweet 
Rang through the fields of air his mounting strain. 

Blithe, blessed creature ! take me there with thee — 
I cried in spirit — passionately cried — 

But higher still and higher 

Rang out that living Lyre, 
As if the Bird disdained me in his pride. 

And I was left below, but now no more 

Plunged in the doleful realms of Death and Night — 

Up with the skylark's lay, 

My soul had winged her way 
To the supernal source of Life and Light. 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 107 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS, 



How happily, how happily the flowers die away ! 
Oh ! could we but return to earth as easily as they ; 
Just live a life of sunshine, of innocence, and bloom, 
Then drop without decrepitude or pain into the tomb. 

The gay and glorious creatures ! " they neither toil nor spin," 
Yet lo ! what goodly raiment they're all apparelled in ; 
No tears are on their beauty, but dewy gems more bright 
Than ever brow of eastern Queen, endiademed with light. 

The young rejoicing creatures ! their pleasures never pall — 
Nor lose in sweet contentment, because so free to all ; 
The dew, the shower, the sunshine ; the balmy blessed air. 
Spend nothing of their freshness, though all may freely share. 

The happy careless creatures ! of time they take no heed ; 

Nor weary of his creeping, nor tremble at his speed ; 

Nor sigh with sick impatience, and wish the light away ; 

Nor when 'tis gone, cry dolefully, " Would God that it were day." 

And when their lives are over, they drop away to rest. 
Unconscious of the penal doom, on holy Nature's breast — 
No pain have they in dying — no shrinking from decay. 
Oh ! could we but return to earth as easily as they ! 



THE SPELL OF MUSIC. 



THE SPELL OF MUSIC 



*' Oh ! never, never hand of mine 

Will wake the harp again, 
The viewless harp, the many voiced, 

The long beloved in vain. 

" Oh ! never, never heart of mine, 

Throughout its inmost core, 
With thrilling tones and symphonies 

Will vibrate as of yore. 

" On hand, and heart, and spirit now 
A deadening spell has dropt — 

* The Vision and the Voice' are o'er, 
The stream of fancy stopt." 

'Twas thus I mused, when suddenly 

A strain of music stole, 
Like perfume on the night breeze borne, 

Into mine inmost soul. 

And lo ! the living instrument, 
The chords unswept so long. 

Responded that mysterious touch, 
And trembled into song. 



TO DEATH. 103 



TO DEATH. 



Come not in terrors clad, to claim 

An unresisting prey — 
Come like an evening shadow, Death ! 

So stealthily ! so silently : 
And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath — 

Then willingly — oh ! willingly 
With thee I'll go away. 

What need to clutch with iron grasp 
What gentlest touch may take ? 

What need, with aspect dark, to scare 
So awfully — so terribly. 

The weary soul would hardly care, 

Called quietly, called tenderly, 

From thy dread power to break ? 

'Tis not as when thou markest out 

The young — the blest — the gay ; 
The loved, the loving ; they who dream 

So happily, so hopefully ; 
Then harsh thy kindest call may seem, 
And shrinkingly — reluctantly 
The summoned may obey. 

But I have drank enough of life 
(The cup assigned to me 
11 



no TO DEATH. 



Dashed with a little sweet at best, 

So scantily — so scantily) — 
To know full well that all the rest, 
More bitterly — more bitterly 
Drugged to the last will be : — 

And I may live to pain some heart 
That kindly cares for me — 

To pain, but not to bless. O Death ! 
Come quietly — come lovingly, 

And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath ; 
Then willingly — oh ! willingly 
With thee I'll go away. 



WHEN SHALL WE MEET AGAIN? lu 



WHEN SHALL WE BIEET AGAIN? 



" When shall we meet again ?" my friend, 

An awful question thine ; 
" Where shall we nqeet again ?" not ours 

The secret to divine. 

Not ours to lift the veil, perchance 

In tender mercy drawn ; 
Oh ! CQuld we look beyond, would Hope 

Still lead us cheerly on ? 

Should we behold two living friends, 

Long sundered, meet at last 
In the far distance ? or appalled, 

Our shuddering glances cast 

On a dark mound of Paynim mould 
Uncrowned by turban'd stone ; 

Or a green grave of English earth. 
As lowly and as lone ? 

Oh ! likelier iJiat — that English grave ; 

And one methinks may stand 
Hereafter on its sod, and think 

" Alas, my native land ! 



112 WHEN SHALL WE MEET AGAIN? 



" A warmer welcome had been mine 

This trying hour to cheer, 
Had the poor heart been warm with life 

Which darkly mioulders here." 

Nay let it fall that blessed veil 

Which shuts the future out; 
The earthly future — but beyond, 

Away with dread and doubt. 

" Wlien shall we meet ?" When Time is o'er, 

And Sorrow past, and Pain ; 
" Where shall we meet ?" God grant in Heaven, 

Never to part again. 



TO THE MEMORY OF ISABEL SOUTHEY. 113 



TO THE MEMORY OF ISABEL SOUTHEY. 



*Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, when Hope hath built a bower 
Like that of Eden, wreathed about with every thornless flower, 
To dwell therein securely, the self-deceiver's trust, 
A whirlwind from the desert comes, and " all is in the dust." 

'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, that when the poor heart clings 
With all its finest tendrils, with all its flexile rings. 
That goodly thing it cleaveth to, so fondly and so fast. 
Is struck to earth by lightning, or shattered by the blast. 

'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, with beams of mortal bliss, 
With looks too bright and beamtiful for such a world as this ; 
One moment round about us their " angel* lightnings" play. 
Then down the veil of darkness drops, and all hath past away. 

'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, with sounds too sweet for earth — 
Seraphic sounds, that float away (borne Heavenward) in their 

birth ; 
The golden shell is broken, the silver chord is mute, 
The sweet bells all are silent, and hushed the lovely lute. 

'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, with all that's best below. 
The dearest, noblest, loveliest, are always first to go, 

* •' II lampeggiar del angelico riso." 
11* 



114 TO THE MEMORY OF ISABEL SOUTHEY. 

The bird that sings the sweetest, the pine that crowns the rock,^ 
The glory of the garden, the flower of the flock. 1 

'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, with creatures heavenly fair, 
Too finely framed to 'bide the brunt more earthly natures bearr 
A little while they dwell with us, blest ministers of love, 
Then spread the wings we had not seen, and seek their homi: 
above. 



"AURA VENI." 115 



AURA VENI." 



BALi'Y freshness ! heavenly air, 
Cool, oh ! cool this burning brow ; 

Loose the fiery circlet there — 
Blessed thing ! I feel ye now. 

Blessed thing ! depart not yet, 

Let me, let me quaft' my fill, 
Leave me not my soul to fret, 

Gasping for what mocks me still. 

Oh ! the weary, weary nights 

I've lain awake and thought of thee ; 

Of clouds and corn — and all sweet sights 
Of shade and sunshine, flower and tree ; 

Of running waters, rippling clear. 
Of greenwood glen, and gipsy camp ; 

Then how I loathed to see and hear 
That ticking watch, that sickly lamp ; 

And longed, at least for light again. 

For day — that brought no change to me- 

The weight was on my heart and brain ; 
God might remove it — only He. 



1!B "AURA VENL" 



And now and then the fount of tears, 
So seeming dry, was free to flow ; 
t 'Twas worth a score of joyous years, 
That short-lived luxury of wo. 

And in the midst of all my pain, 
I knew I was not quite forgot, 

I knew my cry was not in vain, 
So I was sad, but fainted not. 

And now the merciful command 

Has lightened what was worst to bear, 

And given of better days at hand 
A foretaste in this blessed air. 



THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT. 117 



THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT. 



ly Baby ! my poor little one ! thou'rt come a winter flower, 
: pale and tender blossom, in a cold unkindly hour ; 
'hou comest like the snowdrop, and like that pretty thing, 
jhe power that calls my bud to life will shield its blossoming. 

he snowdrop hath no guardian leaves, to fold her safe and 

warm, 
et well she bides the bitter blast, and weathers out the storm ; 
shall not long enfold thee thus— not long, but well I know 
'he everlasting arms, my Babe ! will never let thee go. 

'he snowdrop— how it haunts me still !— hangs down her fair 

young head ; 
o thine may droop in days to come, when I have long been 

dead, 
ind yet, the little snowdrop's safe— from her instruction seek ; 
i'or who would crush the motherless, the lowly and the meek 1 

let motherless thou'lt not be long— not long in name, my life ! 
rhy father soon will bring him home another, fairer wife j 
3e loving, dutiful to her— find favour in her sight, 
But never, O ! my child, forget thine own poor mother quite. 

But who will speak to thee of her ?— the gravestone at her head 
iWill only tell the name and age, and lineage of the dead ; 



118 THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT. 

But not a word of all the love— the mighty love for thee, 
That crowded years into an hour of brief maternity. 

They'll put my picture from its place, to tix another's there, 
That picture that was thought so like, and then so passing fliir ! !^ 
Some chamber in thy father's house they'll let thee call thinJ 

own; 
Oh ! take it there to look upon, when thou art all alone— 

To breathe thine early griefs unto, if such assail my child ; 
To turn to from less loving looks, from faces not so mild. 
Alas ! unconscious little one, thou'lt never know that best, 
That holiest home of all the eartl], a living Mother's breast. 

I do repent me now too late of each impatient thought, 
That would not let me tarry out God's leisure as I ought : 
I've been too hasty, peevish, proud ; 1 long'd to go away ; 
And now I'd fain live on for thee, God will not let me stay. 

Oh ! when I think of what I was, and what / might have been,— 
A bride last year— and now to die !— and I am scarce nineteen : 
And just— just op'ning in my heart a fount of love so new ! 
So deep !— Could that have run to waste— could that have fail'd 
me too ? 

The bliss it would have been to see my daughter at my side f 
My prime of life scarce overblown, and hers in all its pride. 
To deck her with my finest things— with all I've rich and rare ; 
To hear it said—" How beautiful ! and good as she is fair !" 

And then to place the marriage wreath upon that bright young 
brow — 

—Oh! no— not that— his full of thorns Alas! I'm wand'ring 

now. 



THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT. 119 



^his weak, weak head! this foolish heart! they'll cheat me to 

the last : 
've been a dreamer all my life, and now that life is past. 

.^hou'lt have thy father's eyes, my child !— Oh ! once how kind 

they were I 
lis long black lashes — his own smile — and just such raven hair. 
5ut here's a mark— Poor innocent ! he'll love thee for't the less— 
^ike that upon thy Mother's cheek his lips were wont to press. 

?^nd yet — perhaps I do him wrong — perhaps when all's forgot 
3ut our young loves, in memory's mood he'll kiss this very spot ; 
3h ! then, my dearest ! clasp thine arms about his neck full fast, 
A.nd whisper that I bless'd him now, and loved him to the last. 

['ve heard that little infants converse by smiles and signs 

With the guardian band of angels that round about them shines, 

Unseen by grosser senses ; — Beloved one ! dost thou 

Smile so upon thy heavenly friends, and commune with them now ? 

And hast thou not one look for me ? Those little restless eyes 
Are wand'ring, wand'ring, ev'rywhere, the while thy Mother 

dies ; — 
And yet— perhaps thou'rt seeking me— expecting me, mine own ! 
Come, Death! and make me to my child at least in spirit known. 



120 TO THE SWEET-SCENTED CYCLAMEN. 



TO THE SWEET-SCENTED CYCLAMEN. 



T LOVE thee well, my dainty flower ! 

My wee, white cowering thing, 
That shrinketh like a cottage maid, 
Of bold, uncivil eyes afraid. 

Within thy leafy ring ! 

I love thee well, my dainty dear ! 

Not only that thou'rt fair — 
Not only for thy downcast eye. 
Nor thy sweet breath, so lovingly, 

That woos the caller air — 

But that a world of dreamy thoughts 

The sight of -thee doth bring ; 
Like birds who've wander'd far from hence, 
And come again (we know not whence) 
At the first call of spring. 

As here I stand and look on thee, 
Before mine eyes doth pass — 

(Clearing and quick'ning as I gaze) 

An evening scene of other days. 
As in a magic glass. 

I see a small old-fashioned room, 
With pannell'd wainscot high — • 



TO THE SWEET-SCENTEI) CYCLAMEN. 121 

Old portraits, round in order set, 
Carved heavy tables, chairs, buffet 
Of dark mahogany ; 

Twin china jars, on brackets high. 

With grinning Monsters crown 'd ; 
And one, that like a Phoenix' nest, 
Exhales all Araby the Blest, 

From that old bookcase round. 

And there a high-back'd, hard settee, 

On six brown legs and paws, 
Flow'r'd o'er with silk embroidery, 
And there, — all rough with filigree, — 

Tall screens on gilded claws. 

Down drops the damask curtain there 

In many a lustrous fold ; 
The fire-.ight flashing broad and high, 
Floods its pale amber gorgeously 

With waves of redder gold. 

And lo ! the flamy brightness wakes 

Those pictured shapes to life — 
My Lady's lip grows moist and warm, 
And dark Sir Edward's mailed form 

Starts out for mortal strife — 

And living, breathing forms are round — 

Some gently touch'd by Time, 
Staid Elders, clust'ring by the hearth, 
And one, the soul of youthful mirth 

Outksting youthful prime. 
12 



122 TO THE SWEET-SCENTED CYCLAMEN. 

And there— where slie presides so well, 

With fair dispensing hands — 
Where tapers shine, and porcelain gleams, 
And muffins smoke, and tea-urn steams, 
The Pembroke Table stands — 

That heir-loom Tea-pot ! — Graphic Muse I 

Describe it if thou'rt able — 
Methinks — were such advances meet — 
On those three, tiny, toddling feet, 
'Twould swim across the table. 

And curtsy to the coffee- pot 

(Coquettishly demure), 
Tall, quaint compeer ! — fit partner he 
To lead with her so gracefully 

Le minuet de la cour ! 

Ah, precious Monsters ! dear Antiques \ 

More beautiful to me. 
Than modern, fine, affected things. 
With classic claws, and beaks, and wings 

(" God save the mark !") can be — 

How grateful tastes th' infused herb ! 

How pleasant its perfume ! 
Some sit and sip ; — with cup in hand 
This saunters round ; — while others stand 

In knots about the room — 

In cozy knots — there, three and four-— 

And here, one, two, and three— ^ 
Here by my little dainty flower — ■ 



TO THE SWEET-SCENTED CYCLAMEN. 123 

Oh fragrant thing ! Oh pleasant hour ! 
Oh gentle company ! 

Come, Idler, set that cup aside, 

And tune the flute for me — 
What will I have ? Oh, prithee, play- 
That air I love — " Te bien aimer 

Pour toujours ma Zelie." 

Sweet air ! — sweet flower ! — sweet social looks ! — 

Dear friends ! — young, happy hearts ! 
How now ! — What ! all alone am I ? 
Come they with cruel mockery 

Like shadows to depart ? 

Ay, shadows all — gone every face 

I loved to look upon — 
Hush'd every strain I loved to hear, 
Or sounding in a distant ear — 

" All gone ! — all gone ! — all gone !" 

Some far away in other lands — 

In this — some worse than dead — 
Some in their graves laid quietly — 
One, slumb'ring in the deep, deep sea — 

All gone !— all lost !— all fled ! 

And here am I — I live and breathe, 

And stand, as then I stood. 
Beside my little dainty flower — 
But now, in what an alter'd hour ! 

In what an alter'd mood ! 



124 TO THE SWEET-SCENTED CYCLAMEN. 

And yet I love to linger here — ■ 

To inhale this od'rous breath — 

(Faint as a whisper from the tomb) 

To gaze upon this pallid bloom 
As on the face of Death. 



THE TREATY. 125 



THE TKEATY. 



Never tell me of loving by measure and weight, 

As one's merits may lack or abound ; 
As if love could be carried to market like skate, 

And cheapen'd for so much a-pound. 

If it can — if yours can, let them have it who care — 
You and I, friend ! shall never agree — 

Pack up, and to market be off with your ware ; 
It's a great deal too common for me. 

D'ye linger ? — d'ye laugh ? — I'm in earnest I vow — 
Though perhaps over hasty a thought ; 

If you're thinking to close with my terms as they are, 
Well and good — but I wont bate a jot. 

You must love me — We'll note the chief articles now, 
To preclude all mistakes in our pact — 

And I'll pledge ye, unask'd and beforehand, my vow, 
To give double for all I exact. 

You must love me — not only through " evil report," 
When its falsehood you more than divine ; 

But when upon earth I can only resort 
To your heart as a voucher for mine. 
12* 



126 THE TREATY. 



You must love — not my faults — but in spite of them, me, 

For the very caprices that vex ye ; 
Nay the more, should you chance (as it's likely) to see 

'Tis my special delight to perplex ye. 

You must love me, albeit all the world I offend 

By impertinence, whimsies, conceit ; 
While assured (if you are not, all treaty must end) 

That I never can stoop to deceit 

While assured (as you must be, or there too we part) 
That were all the world leagued against you, 

To loosen one hair of your hold on my heart 
Would be more than " life's labours" could do. 

You must love me, howe'er I may take things amiss, 
Whereof you in all conscience stand clear ; 

And although, when you'd fain make it up with a kiss, 
Your reward be a box on the ear. 

You must love me — not only when smiling and gay. 

Complying, sweet temper'd, and civil ; 
But when moping, and frowning, and froward — or say 

The thing plain out — as cross as the Devil. 

You must love me in all moods — in seriousness, sport ; 

Under all change of circumstance too : 
Apart, or together, in crowds, or — in short 

You must love me — because I love you. 



THE LAST JOURNEY. 127 



THE LAST JOURNEY 



MiCHAUD, in his description of an Egyptian funeral procession, which he 
met on its way to the cemetery of Rosetta, says — " The procession we saw pass 
stopped before certain houses, and sometimes receded a few steps. I was told 
that the dead stopped thus before tlie doors of their friends to bid them a last 
farewell, and before those of their enemies to eiFect a reconciliation before they 
parted for ever." — Correspondence d^ Orient, par MM. Michaud et Poujoulat. 



Slowly, with measured tread. 
Onward we bear the dead 

To his long home. 
Short grows the homeward road, 
On with your mortal load. 

Oil, Grave ! we come. 

Yet, yet— ah ! hasten not 
Past each faniiliar spot 

Where he hath been ; 
Where late he walked in glee, 
There from henceforth to be 

Never more seen. 

Yet, yet — ah ! slowly move — 
Bear not the form we love 

Fast from our sight — 
Let the air breathe on him, 
And the sun leave on him 

Last looks of lifzht. 



128 THE LAST JOURNEY 

Rest ye — set down the bier, 
One he loved dwelleth here. 

Let the dead lie 
A moment that door beside, 
Wont to fly open wide 

Ere he came nigh. 

Harken ! — he speaketh yet — 
" Oh, friend ! wilt thou forget 

(Friend more than brother l) 
How hand in hand we've gone. 
Heart with heart linked in one — 

All to each other ? 

" Oh, friend ! I go from thee, 
Where the worm feasteth free, 

Darkly to dwell — 
Giv'st thou no parting kiss ? 
Friend ! is it come to this ? 

Oh, friend, farewell !" 

Uplift your load again. 

Take up the mourning strain ! 

Pour the deep wail ! 
Lo ! the expected one 
To his place passeth on — 

Grave ! bid him hail. 

Yet, yet — ah ! — slowly move ; 
Bear not the form we love 

Fast from our sight — 
Let the air breathe on him, 
And the sun leave on him 

Last looks of light. 



THE LAST JOURNEY. 1U9 

Here dwells his mortal foe ; 
Lay the departed low, 

E'en at his gate. — 
Will the dead speak again ? 
Uttering proud boasts and vain, 

Last words of hate ? 

Lo ! the dead lips unclose — 
List ! list ! what sounds are those, 

Plaintive and low ? 
" Oh thou, mine enemy ! 
Come forth and look on me 

Ere hence I go. 

" Curse not thy foeman now — 
Mark ! on his pallid brow 

Whose seal is set ! 
Pard'ning I past away — 
Thou — wage not war with clay — - 

Pardon — forget." 

Now his last labour's done ! 
Now, now the goal is won ! 

Oh, Grave ! we come. 
Seal dp this precious dust — 
Land of the good and just, 

Take the soul home ! 



I3D ONCE UPON A TIME. 



ONCE UPON A TIME 



Sunny locks of brightest hue 
Once around my temples grew, — 
Laugh not, Lady ! for 'tis true ; 
Laugh not, Lady ! for with thee 
Time may deal despitefully ; 
Time, if long he lead thee here, 
May subdue that mirthful cheer ; 
Round those laughing lips and eyes 
Time may write sad histories ; 
Deep indent that even brow 
Change those locks, so sunny now, 
To as dark and dull a shade, 
As on mine his touch hath laid. 

Lady ! yes, these locks of mine 
Cluster'd once with golden shine, 
Temples, neck, and shoulders rouna. 
Richly gushing if unbound, 
If from band and bodkin free, 
Wellnigh downward to the knee. 
Some there were took fond delight, 
Sporting with those tresses bright. 
To enring with living gold 
Fingers, now beneath the mould 
(Wo is me !) grcAvn icy cold. 



ONCE UPON A TIME. 131 

One dear hand hath smooth 'd them too 
Since they lost the sunny hue, 
Since their bright abundance fell 
Under the destroying spell — 
One dear hand ! the tenderest 
Ever nurse child rock'd to rest. 
Ever wiped away its tears — 
Even those of later years 
From a cheek untimely hollow, 
Bitter drops that still may follow, 
Where's the hand will wipe away ? 
Hers I kiss'd — (Ah ! dismal day) 
Pale as on the shroud it lay. 
Then, methought, youth's latest gleam 
Departed from me like a dream — 
Still, though lost their sunny tone, 
Glossy brown those tresses shone, 
Here and there, in wave and ring, 
Golden threads still glittering ; 
And (from band and bodkin free) 
Still they flowed luxuriantly. 

Careful days, and wakeful nights. 
Early trench'd on young delights. 
Then of ills an endless train, 
Wasting languor, wearying pain, 
Fev'rish thought that racks the brain, 
Crowding all on summer's prime, 
Made me old before my time. 
So a dull, unlovely hue 
O'er the sunny tresses grew, 
Thinn'd their rich abundance too, 
Not a thread of golden light 
In the sunshine glancing bright. 



132 ONCE UPON A TIME. 

Now again a shining streak 
'Gins the dusky cloud to break ; — 
Here and there a glittering thread 
Lights the ringlets, dark and dead, — 
Glittering light ! — but pale and cold- 
Glittering thread ! — but not of gold. 

Silent warning ! silvery streak ! 
Not unheeded dost thou speak. 
Not with feelings light and vain — • 
Not with fond regretful pain, 
Look I on the token sent 
To declare the day far spent ; — 
Dark and troubled hath it been — 
Sore misused ! and yet between 
Gracious gleams of peace and grace 
Shining from a better place. 

Brighten — brighten, blessed light ! 
Fast approach the shades of night, — 
When they quite enclose me round, 
May my lamp be burning found ! 



LITTLE LEONARD'S "GOOD-NIGHT." 133 



LITTLE LEONARD'S "GOOD-NIGHT." 



" GooD-night ! good-night ! I go to sleep," 

Murmur'd the little child ; — 
And oh ! the ray of Heaven that broke 
On the sweet lips that faintly spoke 

That soft " Good-night," and smiled. 

That angel smile ! that loving look 

From the dim closing eyes ! 
The peace of that pure brow ! But there — 
Ay — on that brow, so young ! so fair ! 
An awful shadow lies. 

The gloom of evening — of the boughs 
That o'er yon window wave ? — 

Nay, nay — within these silent walls, 

A deeper, darker shadow falls, 
The twilight of the Grave — 

The twilight of the Grave — for still 

Fast comes the fluttering breath — 
One fading smile — one look of love — 
A murmur — as from brooding dove — 

" Good-night." And this is Death ! 

Oh ! who hath called thee " Terrible !" 
Mild Angel ! most benign ! 
13 



134 LITTLE LEONARD'S "GOOD-NIGHT. 

Could mother's fondest lullaby 
Have laid to rest more blissfully 

That sleeping babe than thine ! 

Yet this is Death — the doom for all 

Of Adam's race decreed — 
" But this poor lamb ! this little one ! — 
What had the guiltless creature done ?" 
Unhappy heart ! take heed ; 

Though he is merciful as just 

Who hears that fond appeal — 
He will not break the bruised reed, 
He will not search the wounds that bleed — 
He only wounds to heal. 

" Let little children come to me," 

He cried, and to his breast 
Folded them tenderly — To-day 
He calls thine unshorn lamb away 
To that securest rest ! 



DEPARTURE. 135 



DEPARTURE. 



When I go away from my own dear home 

Let it be at the fall of the leaf — 
When the soulless things that to me have been 
Like spirits peopling the silent scene, 

Are fading, as if in grief. 

When the strains of the summer birds have ceased, 

Or in far-off regions swell — 
Oh ! let me not hear the blithesome song 
Of that Blackbird I fed all winter long, 

When I'm taking my last farewell. 

The Robin-redbreast will come, I know, 

That morn to the window pane. 
To look, as wont, for the scattered feast, 
With his large dark eyes : — and that day, at least, 

tie shall not look in vain. 

Let the Autumn wind, when I go away. 

Make moan with its long-drawn breath — 

" Fare thee well, sad one !" 'twill seem to say — 

" Yet a little while, and a little way. 
And thy feet shall rest in death." 

And here, and there, an evergreen leaf 
I'll gather from shrub and tree, 



136 DEPARTURE. 



To take with me wherever I go ; 
And when this poor head in dust lies low, 
To be laid in the coffin with me. 

I go not like one in the strength of youth, 

Who hopes, though the passing cloud 
May pour down its icy hail amain, 
That summer and sunshine may break out again 

The brighter from sorrow's shroud. 

An April morn and a clouded day 

My portion of life hath been : 
And darker and darker the evening sky 
Stretches before me gloomily, 

To the verge of the closing scene. 

Gloomily darkens the evening sky : 

I shall go with a heavy heart — 
Yet — would I change, if the power were mine, 
One tittle decreed by the will Divine ? 

Oh ! no — not a thousandth part ; — 

In my blindness I've wished — in my feebleness wept — 

With a weak, weak woman's wail — 
But humbling my heart and its hopes in the dust 
(All its hopes that are earthly)— I've anchored my trust 

On the strength that can never fail. 



HOW SWIFT IS A GLANCE OF THE MIND!" 137 



"HOW SWIFT IS A GLANCE OF THE HINDI' 



AN EXILE'S SONG 



" When I think of my own native land, 
In a moment I seem to be there." 



That flower, that flower ! Oh ! pluck that flower for me ! 
There, in the running stream, 

Its silvery* clusters gleam : j 

Oh ! give it me ! | 

The same ! the very same ! I knew it well, I 

Last seen so long ago. Oh, simple flower, 
That sight of thee should waken up this hour 
Thoughts more than tongue can tell ! 

I 
A moment since and I was calm and cold — 

Cold as this world to me, , 

With all its pageantry, i 

Grown stale and old. 
Now the warm blood, through every throbbing vein 
Fast hurrying, mantles over cheek and brow, 
Like youth and hope rekindling — ebbing now '■ 

To the full heart again : j 

I 
* The Buckbean. * j 

13* ! 



138 "HOW SWIFT IS A GLANCE OF TPIE MIND 

Leaving a paler cheek — a glistening eye 
With watery gaze fixecf fast 
On visions of the past ; 
Oh ! where am I ? 
At home, at home again in mine own land ; 

Its mountain streams are murm'ring in mine ear, 
And thrilling voices from loud lips I hear. 
There — there the loving band. 

Mine own long lost ! — Oh ! take the weary one 
To weep on some dear breast 
This agony to rest — 
On thine, my son ! 
Thou answerest not — None answer me — that cry 
Was from mine own sad heart ; and they are gone — 
And at my feet the little brook flows on, 
Tranquilly — tranquilly. 

No mountain streamlet of my native land ; 
Yet doth its voice to me 
Sound sweet and soothingly ; 
And in mine hand, 
Of those pale flowers (now gemmed with tears) I hold 
Henceforth to memory sacred : — from this hour 
That they've awakened with such wondrous power, 
Dreams of the days of old. 



THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. 139 



THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED 



Tread softly — bow the head — 
In reverent silence bow — 

No passing bell doth toll. 
Yet an immortal soul 

Is passing now. 

Stranger ! however great, 

With lowly reverence bow ; 
There's one in that poor shod— r 
One by that paltry bed, 

Greater than thou. 

Beneath that Beggar's roof, 

Lo ! Death doth keep his state 
Enter — no crowds attend — 
Enter — no guards defend 

This palace gate. 

That pavement damp and cold 
No smiling courtiers tread : 
One silent woman stands 
Lifting with meager hands 
A dying head. 

No mingling voices sound — 
An infant wail alone ; 



140 THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. 

A sob suppress'd — again 
That short deep gasp, and then 
The parting groan. 

Oh ! change — Oh ! wond'rous change- 
Burst are the prison bars — 
This moment there, so low, 
So agonized, and now 

Beyond the stars ! 

Oh ! change — stupendous change ! 

There lies the soulless clod : 
The Sun eternal breaks — 
The new Immortal wakes — 

Wakes with his God. 



TO MY OLD CANARY. 



TO MY OLD CANARY. 



'Tis many a long year now, Birdie ! 

Ay, sure — some seven years good, 
Since I rhymed to you one day. 
On a certain morn of May, 

In an idle, sing-song mood. 

I remember it all as well, Birdie, 

The hour, and the place and the mood, 

As if time, since slipt away. 

Were little more than a day. 
And yet is it seven years good ! 

A great sum of life struck off. Birdie ! 

And I feel it has told with me — 
But you're looking as young and bright 
As you did in that May morn's light, 

And you're singing more merrily. 

For then you were moping and mute. Birdie, 
Though I begg'd (and you seem'd to hear me) 

That you'd tune up that little throat, 

But you never vouchsafed a note. 
Not a single note to cheer me. 



142 TO MY OLD CANARY. 

And your silence seem'd very unkind ; 

For, in sooth — as I well remember — 
Though Earth wore her best array 
That beautiful month of May, 

My heart was as sad as December* 

For then first I felt myself lonely, 
Quite — quite left alone upon earth, 

Hid for ever the last loving face, 

And even the old dog's place. 
Forsaken beside the hearth. 

And I — though a sickly creature, 

Might still live lingering on, 
Like a trampled passion-flower, 
Torn down from its bonny bower. 
When all I had clung to was gone. 

I sat at my pleasant window. 

Where the myrtle and rose peeped in. 

And without such a smile serene 

Pervaded the quiet scene, 

That sorrow seem'd almost a sin. 

And I tried to rejoice with Nature, 

For my heart was not sullen though sad ; 
But the cloud of my spirit lay 
On all beautiful things that day. 

And I could not — I could not be glad. 

So I bent again to the task 

That had dropt unperceived on my knee. 
And my needle began to ply. 
Busily — busily — 

As fast, as fast could be. 



TO MY OLD CANARY. 143 

Stitch after stitch I set 

Mechanically true, 
But the seeming gaze intent, 
On that dull labour bent, 

Had little with thought to do. 

And soon from the careless finger 

A crimson drop was drawn — 
And next — from a source less near — 
Another, as crystal clear, 

Dropt on the snowy lawn. 

And my sight grew dim — and again 

My hands fell listlessly-^ 
And the sound of my very breath, 
In that stillness as deep as death, 

Was a distress to me. 

" Oh ! for a sound of life 

From a single living thing," 
I passionately cried — 
And thou wert by my side, 

Birdie ! and didst not sing. 

Then 'twas that rhymed remonstrance 

(So famous !) I spake to thee, 
Not surely less improving, • 
Than it was deeply moving, 

And its effect on me 

Was wondrously relieving — 

For as my verse flowed on, 
Sad thoughts it did beguile, 
And for a little while 

My loneliness was gone. 



144 TO MY OLD CANARY. 

And from that very moment, 

Birdie ! I do opine, 
There has been more in thee 
Than common eyes can see — 

Or any eyes but mine. ^ 

^Tis not because thy music 
Is ceaseless now all day 

(As many a deafen'd guest 

Can ruefully attest) 

That thus of thee I say : 

But that when night is round us, 

And every guest is gone, 
And by the taper's beam, 
Or fire-light's ruddier gleam, 
I'm sitting all alone, 

Forth from thy gilded prison, 

Soft silvery tones 'gin swell, 
More sweet and tender far 
Than tenderest warblings are 
Of love-lorn Philomel — 

And thou, the while, fast perch 'd, 

As if asleep — so still ! 
That tremulous under tone, 
Liquidly gurgling on, 

Like a tiny, tinkling rill. — 

And when I watch thee closer. 

Small creature ! with surprise, 
Half doubtful, if from thee 
That marvellous melody, 
I meet thy watchful eyes 



TO MY OLD CANARY. 145 

Those bright black eyes, so strangely, 

Methinks, that answer mme ; 
It surely seems to me, 
Some spirit thou must be. 

Pent in that plumy shrine — 

But whether spirit, fairy, 

Or mortal fowl thou art, 
I thank thee, pretty creature ! 
My comforter ! my teacher ! 

I thank thee from my heart — 

My comforter I call thee — 

For many a heavy hour, 
Hath lightened of its sadness, 
Nay — half attuned to gladness. 

Thy small pipe's witching power. 

And often-time while list'ning, 

I've caught th' infectious tone ; 
And murmur'd fitful words — 
And struck a few faint chords, 

Wild music of my own ; 

Till to the realms of Cloudland, 

Freed Fancy wing'd her flight, 
Far, far beneath her leaving 
This world of sin and grieving — 

So, Birdie, with good right 

My Comforter I call thee — 

My Teacher thou shouldst be ; 
For sure some lesson holy. 
Of wisdom meek and lowly, 

May reason learn from thee. 
14 



146 TO MY OLD CANARY. 

Debarr'd from choicest blessings. 

Inferior good to prize — 
Thou hymn'st the light of Heaven, 
Though not to thee 'tis given 
To soar into the skies. 

Content thou art, and thankful, 
For some poor gather'd weed ; 

Though nature's charter'd right 

In gardens of delight 

Gave thee to sport and feed — 

Thou renderest good for evil, 

For sad captivity 
Sweet music — all thy treasure ; — ■ 
Oh ! Birdie ! when I measure 

Philosophy with thee. 

I feel how much I'm wanting, 
Though more is given to me — 

That thou, poor soulless creature! 

Mayst truly be the teacher 
Of proud humanity. 



TO LITTLE MARY. 147 



TO LITTLE MARY. 



I'm bidden, little Mary ! 

To write verses upon thee ; 
I'd fain obey the bidding 

If it rested but with me : 
But the Mistresses I'm bound to 

(Nine Ladies hard to please) 
Of all their stores poetic 

So closely keep the keys, 
It's only now and then, 

By good luck as one may say, 
That a couplet or a rhyme or two 

Falls fairly in my way. 

Fruit forced is never half so sweet 

As that comes quite in season — 
But some folks must be satisfied 

With rhyme in spite of reason. 
So, Muses ! now befriend me, 

Albeit of help so chary. 
To string the pearls of poesie 

For loveliest Little Mary. 

And yet,iye pagan Damsels ! 

Not over fond am I 
T' invoke your haughty favours, 



148 TO LITTLE MARY. 

Your fount of Castaly. 
I've sipt a purer fountain, 

I've deck'd a holier shrine. 
I own a mightier Mistress — 

Nature ! Thou art mine. 
And Feeling's fount than Castaly 

Yields waters more divine ! 

And only to that well-head. 

Sweet Mary ! I'll resort, 
For just an artless verse or two, 

A simple strain and short. 
Befitting well a Pilgrim 

Wayworn with earthly strife, 
To offer thee, young Traveller ! 

In the morning track of life. 

There's many a one will tell thee 

'Tis all with roses gay — 
There's many a one will tell thee 

'Tis thorny all the way — 
Deceivers are they every one. 

Dear Child ! who thus pretend ; 
God's ways are not unequal — 

Make Him thy trusted friend, 
And many a path of plesantness 

He'll clear away for thee, 
However dark and intricate 

The labyrinth may be. 

I need not wish thee beauty — 

1 need not wish thee grace — 
Already both are budding 

In that infant form and face 



TO LITTLE MARY. J49 

I will not wish thee grandeur — 

I ivlll not wish thee wealth — 
But only a contented heart, 

Peace — competence — and health — 
Fond friends to love thee dearly, 

And honest friends to chide, 
And faithful ones to cleave to thee, 

Whatever may betide. 

And now, my little Mary ! 

If better things remain, 
Unheeded in my blindness, 

Unnoticed in my strain, 
I'll sum them up succinctly. 

In " English undefiled," 
My Mother tongue's best benison, — 

God bless thee — precious Child ! 

14=^ 



150 THE HEDGEHOG. 



THE HEDGEHOG. 



Some carping, cross-grained souls there be 

(Male specimens are not the rarest) 
Will split you half a hair in two 
In argument ; to prove green hlue, 
Or this not that — or truth not true, 

When it shines fairest. 

'Twould wear the patience of a saint, 

A Job, a Grizzelj all to tatters, 
One of those wearying .wights to hear 
Harp-harping on for half-a-year 
(His motto's always " persevere") 
Anent such matters. 

But, if you prize an hour of peace 

(We'll just suppose, Ma'am ! he's your Sposo), 
Be cautious how you make pretence 
To pose him with superior sense. 
Or airs of calm indifference, 

Play *' grandioso." 

That way won't do — believe me, twon't — 

You might as well oppose a river ; 
Or — after fighting very hard, 
If you do take him off his guard, 



THE HEDGEHOG. ISl 



And get the best on't — mark my word; 
You're lost for ever. 

To be convinced he's in the wrong ! — 

That all his manly wit's been wasted ! — • 
To prove liimself a goose ! — and you 
An oracle ! and to eschew 
Your meekly Christian triumph too ! — 
More bitter dose — (that dose you'll rue) — 
Man never tasted. 

And it's by no means very safe 

A-lways to suffer, like a martyr. 
In silent sweetness, — or to yield, 
At the first onset, sword and shield ; 
He'd rather you'd defend the field, 
And woman's charter. 

Or there's an end of his enjoyment !— 

He canH talk on without an answer 
From morn till night ! — But have a care 
How far you venture with your share 
0' th' argument ; — a nice affair 

T' engafre Drawcansir ! 



'0"0- 



But there are methods. — Just look here. 

Observe this odd, brown bunch of tiiistlcs 
Touch where you will the living ball — 
(For 'tis alive I — 'twill eat and crawl !) — 
Its rusty coat is guarded all 

With thick black bristles ! 

Well ! will you try your naked grasp 

To clutch the crabbed creature firm in, 



152 THE HEDGEHOG. 

And all his charms unfold to view ? 
Handle him gently — That won't do — 
Boldly — he'll prick your fingers through — 
" Deuce take the vermin !" 

Come, come — we've other ways. Let's set 

This cream down by the churlish villain — 
Ah ! ha ! — how soon he smells it out ! 
Look, there's a paw ! and. there's a snout ! 
An's all unrolled now ! Liq'rish lout ! 
See how he's swilling ! 

And all his bristles laid so smooth ! 

Well, what a change ! who could have thought it ? 
He's really (for a hedgehog) pleasing ; 
'Twas neither tenderness nor teasing, 
But that good cream he's over seas in, 
To pass that brought it. 

And to effect such change benign 

In human Hedgehog — saint or sinner — 
To smooth his bristles — soothe his rage — 
There's not an argument so sage, 
Or so prevailing, I'll engage, 

As a good dinner. 



TO MY LITTLE COUSIN. 153 



TO MY LITTLE COUSIN, WITH HER FIRST BONNET, 



Fairies ! guard the baby's bonnet — 

Set a special watch upon it : 

Elfin people ! to your care 

I commit it, fresh and fair ; 

Neat as neatness, white as snow — 

See ye make it ever so. 

Watch and ward set all about. 
Some within and some witiiout ; 
Over it, with dainty hand. 
One her kirtle green expand ; 
One take post at every ring ; 
One at each unwrinkled string ; 
Two or three about the bow 
Vigilant concern bestow ; 
A score, at least, on either side. 
'Gainst evil accident provide 
(Jolt, or jar, or overlay) ; 
And so the precious charge convey 
Through all the dangers of the way 

But when those are batled through, 
Fairies ! more remains to do. 
Ye must gift, before ye go. 
The bonnet and the Babe also — 
Gift it to protect her well, 
Fays ! from all malignant spell, 



154 TO MY LITTLE COUSIN. 

Charms and seasons to defy, 
Blighting winds and evil eye. 

And the bonny Babe ! on her 
All your choicest gifts confer ; — 
Just as much of wit and sense 
As may be hers without pretence — 
Just as much of grace and beauty, 
As shall not interfere with duty — 
Just as much of sprightliness, 
• As may companion gentleness — 
Just as much of firmness, too, 
As with self-will hath nought to do — 
Just as much light-hearted cheer. 
As may be melted to a tear — 
By a word — a tone — a look — 
Pity's touch, or Love's rebuke — 
As much of frankness, sweetly free. 
As may consort with modesty — 
As much of feeling, as will bear 
Of after life the wear and tear — 

As much of life But, but Fairies ! there 

Ye vanish into thinnest air ; 
And with ye parts the playful vein 
That loved a light and trivial strain. 
Befits me better. Babe ! for thee 
T' invoke Almighty agency — 
Almighty love — Almighty power 
To nurture up the human flower; 
To cherish it with heavenly dew, 
Sustain with earthly blessings too ; 
And when the ripe full time shall be, 
Engraft it on Eternity. 



ON THE REMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY PORTRAITS. 155 



ON THE REMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY PORTRAITS. 



Silent friends ! fare ye well — 

Shadows ! adieu. 

Living friends long I've lost, 

Now I lose you. 

Bitter tears many I've shed, 

Ye've seen them flow 
Dreary hours many I've sped. 

Full well ye know. 

Yet in my loneliness, 

Kindly, methought, 
Still ye look'd down on rne. 

Mocking me not, 

With light speech and hollow words, 
Grating so sore 

The sad heart, with many ills 

Sick to the core. 

Then, if my clouded skies 

Brighten'd awhile, 

Seem'd your soft serious eyes 

Almost to smile. 



156 ON THE REMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY PORTRAITS. 



Silent friends ! fare ye well — 

Shadows ! adieu. 

Living friends long I've lost. 

Now I lose you. 

Taken from hearth and board, 

When all were gone ; 

I look'd up at you, and felt 

Not quite alone. 

Not quite companionless, 

While in each face 
Met me familiar 

The stamp of my race. 

Thine, gentle ancestress ! 

Dove-eyed and fair, 
Melting in sympathy 

Oft for my care. 

Grim Knight and stern visaged ! 

Yet could I see 
(Smoothing that furrowed face) 

Good- will to me. 

Bland looks were beaming 

Upon me I knew, 

Fair sir ! — bonnie lady ! — 

From you, and from you. 

Little think happy ones, 

Heart-circled round, 
How fast to senseless things 

Hearts may be bound ; 



ON THE REMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY PORTRAITS. 157 

How, when the living prop's 

Moulder'd and gone, 
Heart-strings, low trailing left. 

Clasp the cold stone. 

Silent friends ! fare ye well — 

Shadows ! adieu. 
Living friends long I've lost, 

Now I lose you. 

Often when spirit-vex'd. 

Weary and worn, 
To your quiet faces, mute 

Friends, would I turn 

Soft as I gazed on them, 

Soothing as balm, 
Lulling the passion-storm. 

Stole your deep calm — 

Till, as I longer look'd, # 

Surely methought, 
Ye read and replied to 

My questioning thought. 

" Daughter," ye softly said — 

" Peace to thine heart : 
We too — yes, daughter ! have 

Been as thou art, 

" Toss'd on the troubled waves. 

Life's stormy sea ; 
Chance and change manifold 

Proving like thee. 
15 



158 ON THE REMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY PORTRAITS. 



" Hope-lifted — doubt-depressed — 
Seeing in part — 

Tried — troubled — tempted — 

Sustained as thou art- 

" Our God is thy God — what He 

Willeth is best- 
Trust him as we trusted : then 

Rest, as we rest." 

Silent friends ! fare ye well — 

Shadows ! adieu — 

One friend abideth still 

All changes through. 



OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 159 



OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK 



Old friend ! that many a long year through 

(Dog-days and all), in brown surtout. 

Hath stood ensconced, with wintriest look, 

F th' warmest side o' the chimney-nook — 

That standeth still i' the self-same place, 

With that same cool composed face, — 

(Few, by the way, 'mongst human creatures, 

Made up of more expressive features), 

Nor e'er in all that weary while, 

Hath utter'd plaint of durance vile — 

In that stiff garment all of oak. 

Thy sentry-box — of heat or smoke ; 

Of task perpetual — (worse than mighty) 

Monotonous — of tsedium vitse — 

Of false reflections on thy truth, 

From weary age — impatient youth, 

Of Time's deliver'd message, scorned 

Or heeded not by those thou'st warned. * 

All these, and other ills in turn 

" That clocks are heirs to," hast thou borne 

With patience most exemplary — 

No peevish frown, or look awry. 

Marring the placid, polished grace 

Of that smooth, broad, reflecting face 



J CO OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 



That shineth still (example rare 
To mortal dames) as smooth and fair, 
As first, some threescore years agone, 
To the admiring light it shone. 

Yet I, who've known thee long and well, 
Could of some prison secrets tell — 
How all unseen hy mortal eye, 
In darkness and in mystery. 
When all the house at dead midnight 
Is hushed and still — like tortured sprite, 
Deep hollow murmurs — long-drawn groans 
Thou utterest, and unearthly tones. 
Such as if heard by silly ear 
Of simple Joan, she quakes for fear, 
Shrinks down beneath the bed-clothes deep, 
And pants and prays herself to sleep. 

Old friend ! I've listened many a night. 

To those strange murmurs with affright 

Unmoved, or superstitious dread. 

Yet, as to utterings from the dead — 

Low mystic groanings — sounds of doom 

Deep. voiced, up-issuing from the tomb — 

And then methought 'twas Timers own tongue, 

Not thine, that solemn dirge that sung 

For generations swept away — 

For ages gathered to decay. 

But Fancy from her loftier range 

Descending soon — a milder change 

Came o'er my spirit, that full fain 

To thy familiar voice again 

Gave ear, discoursing sad, sweet sighs 

Over the heart's own memories. 



OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 101 

Sweet memories of that blissful time, 
Life's dayspriag ! lovelier than its prime, 
When, with the bird on summer morn 
That carolled earliest from the thorn, 
I was awake, and singing too, 
And gathering wild-flowers wet with dew, 
Till summoned home, old friend ! by thee 
(Far-echoing down our cowslip lea) 
To the dear breakfast board, I came 
With scattered curb and cheek of flame 
All glowing from the fresh wind's kiss. 
One to receive of purer bliss — 
What was the balmied morn's caressing 
To that best balm — a Parent's blessing ? 

And when the winter evening long 

Closed round us, and the cricket's song 

Clicked from the clean-sw^ept hearth, where Di 

Stretched yawning out, luxuriously — 

The heavy curtains dropt — thrown on 

The hoarded log — the tea-things gone — 

The candles trimmed and bright — and we . 

(A silent, not unsocial three) , 

In our warm parlour snug together, 

Little cared we for winter weather. 

There sat my mother — on that chair, 

Intent on book or work ; and there 

(Just opposite) my Father sate, 

Poring o'er task elaborate. 

All redolent — ^(his angler's books) — 

Of summer time, green fields, and brooks — 

Arrangement finically nice ! 

Snares of all pattern ; each devico — 



OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 



Insects, with such ingenious art 

Copied from nature, every part 

So perfected with curious skill, 

You only wondered they were still. 

Proud was my Father's little maid, 

His nestling neighbour, when the aid 

Of her small fingers was required — 

(What ministry like Love's unhired ?) 

And young sharp eyes, some hair so fine. 

Some feathery filament to twine 

In cunning knot, that, deftly wrought. 

Must be invisible as thought ; 

The service done, a kind hand pressed 

Her up-turned brow, and she was blessed ; 

And soon, old friend ! thy sober tone 

Telling her happy day was done, 

Down kneeling at the mother's knee. 

Hands clasped, and eyes raised reverently, 

The simple prayer was simply said, 

The kiss exchanged — and so to bed. 

Not soon to sleep — for fancies vain 

Crept oft into that bus^ brain, 

At that lone hour. Some light and gay, 

Of birds and flower — of toys and play : 

Ambitious some — of bold essay 

At lofty rhyme — conceptions grand 

Of giants, dwarfs, and fairy land ; 

Or elegy on favourite bird, 

Dormouse, or lamb (first griefs that stirred 

The deep, deep, source !) — and some of fear. 

As all in darkness, on the ear 

Smote hollow sounds. Hark ! hark ! and then 

How the heart throbbed ! — and there airen ! 



OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 103 



What could it be ? — a groan — a knock — 
" Oh dear ! 'tis only the old Clock." 

Then, simple child, thy witless head, 
With happy sigh, sank back in bed, 
And ere revolved the minute hand. 
The soul was in the " dreaming land." 
Oh ! days, of all I ever knew 
The happiest — ay, the wisest too. 
In that sweet wisdom of the heart, 
Our fallen nature's better part — 
That lingering of primeval light, 
Not yet all sunk in sin and night. 

'Twill be renewed that blessed time ! 

'Twill be renewed that loveliest prime ; 

Renewed, when we again shall be 

Children around the Father's knee 

Of one immortal family ! 

Our portion each — (no more to part) — 

Angelic wisdom — childlike heart. 

Ah ! wandering thoughts — ye've stolen away 

From this dark prison-house of clay ; 

From earth to heaven ! a pleasant track ! 

Too pleasant to be trodden back 

Without a sigh. But, ancient friend ! 

Not here our colloquy must end — 

Thy part therein I freely own 

Subordinate ; an undertone 

Of modest bass. But thou art one 

Too sober, serious, and sedate, 

To be much given to idle prate — 

So, to thy grave concerns attend, 

And let me talk. Ah, honest friend ! 



OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 



Sparing and measured though thy speech, 
What eloquent sermons dost tliou preach 
When the heart listens. Wo is me 
If profitless such listening be. 

" But to my chronicles." Full well 

Was thy watch kept, old sentinel ! 

Full well thine endless duty done — 

While fluttering on from sun to sun, 

A butterfly among the flowers, 

I noted not the passing hours. 

Till the rain fell, the storm beat sore, 

And that sweet summer dream was o'er. 

Then first, old friend ! thy voice to me 

Sounded with sad solemnity ; 

The tones upon my heart that fell 

Deep mingled with a passing bell 

Since then, through many a checkered scene 

Of good and ill my path hath been — 

The good — a gleam not long to last; 

The evil — widely overcast. 

But still to thee in many a mood, 

By night — by day — in solitude. 

Or circled round — in hope or fear, 

Hath turned my long-awakened ear 

As to an oracle, that spoke 

More than the time-dividing stroke. 

Oh ! gladsome to my soul, thy sound, 

Heard wakening first from sleep profound 

(Youth's liglit deep slumber) the first morn. 

After long absence, of return 

To my dear home — Oh, happiness ! 

To lie in blissful consciousness 



OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 165 

Of all around : The picture there — 
The books — the flower-glass filled wiih care 
By a kind hand — And then to know, 
'Twas but to rise, and nneet below 
Such a heart's welcome ! 

Wo is me. 
The sweet and bitter memory 
Of that old time ! of those bright wakings ! 
Followed by some — ah ! sore heart-breakings, 
Leaving a wreck of youthful feeling 
Beyond the reach of Time's own healing. 

But though all powerless evermore 
Life's young illusions to restore — 
(Beautiful dreams !) the wise one brought, 
In kind exchange, awakened thought, 
Awakened seriousness ; and Hope 
That, crushed below, took higher scope — 
Yea heavenly — for her after-flight. 
Then, in the watches of the night, 
With mine own heart while communing, 
Friend ! 'twas a sadly 'pleasing thing 
To hear thee tell how Time went on, 
And how another hour was gone. 
The earthly hopeful, little care 
To heed how swift Time's pinions are — 
But they attend with willing ear 
Who must make their heart's home here. 

Yet, faithful watchman ! time hath been 

In more than one late after scene, 

That, list'ning to thy voice, I've said, 

" Oh ! would that restless tongue were staid." 



166 OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 

I've said so — weak and selfish heart ! 
When time drew near that I must part 
With some beloved, whose sojourn here 
Might have made sunshine all the year ; 
Whose presence for a little day- 
Chased half the wintry clouds away. 

I've thought so — weak and sinful heart ! 
When some were summon'd to depart — 
Call'd from their labours here to cease, 
The fall of days, faith, hope, and peace, 
Who long had linger'd here in pain ; 
TVIy loss in them their countless gain — 
Yet with long watching, worn and low, 
Too soul-opprest for tears to flow ; 
When the deep hush of night and death 
Was in the house — and every breath 
From those dear lips the last might be ; 
A shudd'ring ear I've turn'd from thee, 
Watchman ! whose every minute stroke, 
On fever'd nerves o'erstrained, broke 
. As if a leaden, pond'rous blow 
Fell on some hollow vault below — 
" Oh ! for an hour," I could have pray'd, 
" Stern reckoner ! that thy tongue were staid.'* 

These things are past. Of hopes and fears, 
The current now, with length'ning years 
Flows narrowing in a deeper bed. 
No spark of early feeling fled, 
But all subdued and chastened — 
Too little yet. The Christian strife 
Can finish but with finish'd life — 



OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 167 

The spirit may be all resign'd, 
/et inly bleed — The willing mind 
Too oft may faint — The hopeful eye 
Sink rayless in despondency ; 
But one who reads the secret heart 
In all its griefs can take a part — 
Can pity all its weakness too — 
For He who ne'er corruption knew 
Nor sin, hath yet our nature borne 

And hung at woman's breast — 
And he hath said — Oh ! words that calm 
The troubled heart with holiest balm, — 
" Come unto me, ye travel- worn ! 

And I will give you rest," 



168 THE CHILD'S UNBELIEF. 



THE CHILD'S UNBELIEF. 



" Come hither, my little Child ! to me, 

Come hither and hearken now. 
My poor, poor Child ! is this a day 
For thee to dance , and sport, and play, 
Like blossom on the bough ? 

" Fair blossom ! where's the fostering; bousfh ? 

And where's the parent tree ? 
Stem, root, and branch — all, all laid low ; 
Almost at once — at one fell blow : 

Dear Child ! cling close to me, 

" (My Sister's Child !) for thou shalt grow 

Into my very heart : 
But hush that ringing laugh — to me 
The silver sound is agony ; 

Come, hearken here apart, 

" And fold thy little hands in mine, 

Thus standing at my knee ; 
And look up in my face, and say — 
Dost thou remember what, to-day, 
Weeping, I told to thee ? 



THE CHILD'S UNBELIEF. 169 

" Alas ! my tears are raining fast 
Upon thine orphan head ; 

And thy sweet eyes are glistening now 

Harry ! at last, believest thou 

That thy poor mother's dead ?*' 

*' No, no, my mother is not dead — 
She can^t be dead, you know : 
Oh aunt ! I saw my father die, 
All white and cold I saw him lie — ■ 
My mother don't look so. 

" She cried when I was sent away, 

And I cried very much ; 
And she was pale, and hung her head, 
But all the while her lips were red, 

And soft and warm to touch. 

" Not like my father's — hard and cold 

And then she said, beside. 
She'd come to England soon, you know." 
"But, Harry ! that was months ago — 
She sickened since and died ; 

" And the sad news is come to-day, 

Told in this letter. See, 
'Tis edged and sealed with black." — " Oh ! dear, 
Give me that pretty seal. Look, here 
I'll keep it carefully, 

" With all these others, in my box — 

They're all for her. Don't cry, 

I'll learn my lessons every day, 

That I may have them all to say 

When she comes by and by." 
16 



'70 THE CHILD'S UNBELIEF. 

" Boy ! boy ! thy talk will break my heart — 

Oh Nature ! can it be 
That thou in his art silent so ? — 
Yet what, poor infant ! shouldst thou know 
Of life's great mystery ? 

" Of time and space — of chance and change— 

Of sin. decay, and death : 
What canst thou know, thou sinless one ! 
Thou yet unstained, unbreathed upon 

By this world's tainting breath ? 

" A sunbeam all thy little life ! 

Thy very being bliss — 
Glad creature ! who would waken thee 
To sense of sin and misery 

From such a dream as this V 



THE LEGEND OF SANTAREM. 171 



THE LEGEND OF SANTAREM 



Come listen to a monkish tale of old, 

Right Catholic, but puerile some may deem, 

Who all unworthy their high notice hold 

Aught but grave truth, or lofty learned theme ; 

Too wise for simple fancies, smiles, and tears, 

Dreams of our earliest, purest, happiest years. 

Come — listen to my legend ; for of them 
Surely thou art not : and to thee I'll tell 

How on a time in holiest Santarem 
Strange accident miraculous befell 

Two little ones ; who to the sacred shrine 

Came daily to be schooled in things divine. 

Twin Sisters — orphan innocents were they: 
Most pure I ween, from all but the olden taint, 

Which only Jesu's blood can wash away : 
And holy, as the life of holiest saint. 

Was his, that good Dominican's, who fed 

His master's lambs, with more than daily bread. 

The Children's custom, while that pious man 
Performed the various duties of his state 

Within the spacious church, as Sacristan, 
Was on the altar steps to sit and wait, 

Nestling together ('twas a lovely sight !) 

Like the young turtle doves of Hebrew rite 



THE LEGEND OF SANTAREM. 



A small rich chapel was their sanctuary, 
While thus abiding ; — with adornment fair 

Of curious carved work, wrought cunningly, 
In all quaint patterns, and devices rare : 

And over them, above the altar, smiled 

From Mary-Mother's arms, the holy child. 

Smiled on his infant guests, as there below. 

On the fair altar steps, those young ones spread 

— (Nor aught irreverent in such act I trow) 
Their simple morning meal of fruit and bread. 

Such feast not ill beseemed the sacred dome — 

Their father's house is the dear children's home. 

At length it chanced, upon a certain day, 
When Frey Bernardo to the chapel came, 

Where patiently was ever wont to stay 

His infant charge ; with vehement acclaim, 

Both lisping creatures forth to meet him ran. 

And each to tell the same strange tale began. 

" Father !" they cried, as hanging on his gown 

On either side, in each perplexed ear 
They poured their eager tidings — " He came down— 

Menino Jesu has been with us here ! — 
We asked him to partake our fruit and bread ; 
And he came down — and sate with us — and fed." — 

" Children ! my children ! know ye what ye say ?" 
Bernardo hastily replied — " But hold ! — 

Peace, Briolanja ! — rash art thou alway : 
Let Inez speak." And little Inez told. 

In her slow silvery speech, distinctly o'er. 

The same strange tidings he had heard before. 



THE LEGEND OF SANTAREM. 173 

" Blessed are ye, my children !" with devout 

And deep humility the good man cried — 
"Ye have been highly favoured. Still to doubt 

Were gross impiety and sceptic pride. 
Ye have been highly favoured. Children, dear ! 
Now your old master's loving counsel hear. 

" Return to-morrow with the morning light. 
And as before, spread out your simple fare 

On the same table ; and again invite 
Menino Jesu to descend and share : 

And if he come, say — ' Bid us, blessed Lord ! 

We and our master, to thy heavenly board.' 

" Forget not, children of my soul ! to plead 

For your old master : — Even for his sake 
Who fed ye faithfully : and he will heed 

Your innocent lips ; and I shall so partake 
With his dear lambs. — Beloved, with the sun 
Return to-morrow. — Then — His will be done." 

** To-night ! to-night ! Menino Jesu saith 

We shall sup with him, Father ! we and thee," 

Cried out both happy children in a breath 
As the good Father entered anxiously 

About the morrow's noon, that Holy Shrine, 

Now consecrate by special grace divine. 

" He bade us come alone ; but then we said 
We could not, without thee, our Master dear— 

At that, he did not frown, but shook his head 
Denyingly : Then straight with many a tear 

We prayed so sore, he could not but relent, 

And so, he smiled at last, and gave consent." 



THE LEGEND OF SANTAREM. 



"Now, God be praised !" the old man said, and fell 
In prayer upon the marble floor, straight way, 

His face to Earth : And so, till Vesper bell, 
Entranced in the spirit's depths he lay ; 

Then rose like one refreshed with wine, and stood 

Composed among th' assembling Brotherhood. 

The mass was said ; the evening chaunt was o'er ; 

Hushed its long echoes through the lofty dome : 
And now Bernardo knew the appointed hour 

That he had prayed for, of a truth was come. 
Alone he lingered in the solemn pile. 
Where darkness gathered fast from aisle to aisle ; 

Except, that through a distant door-way streamed 
One slanting sunbeam, gliding whereupon 

Two angel spirits — (so in sooth it seemed 

That loveliest vision) — hand in hand came on. 

With noiseless motion. " Father ! we are here," 

Sweetly saluted the good Father's ear. 

A hand he laid on each fair sun-bright head. 
Rayed like a seraph's with effulgent light, 

And — " Be ye blest, ye blessed ones," he said, 
" Whom Jesu bids to his own board to-night — ■ 

Lead on, ye chosen, to th' appointed place 

Lead your old master." So, with steadfast face. 

He followed, where those young ones led the way 
To that small chapel — like a golden clue 

Streamed on before that long bright sunset ray, 
Till at the door it slopt. Then passing through, 

The master and the pupils, side by side, 

Knelt down in prayer before the Crucified. 



THE LEGEND OF SANTAREM. 175 

Tall tapers burnt before the holy shrine ; 

Chalice and paten on the altar stood, 
Spread with fair damask. Of the crimson wine 

Partaking first alone ; the living food 
Bernardo next with his dear children shared — 
Young lips, but well for heavenly food prepared. 

And there we leave them. Not for us to see 
The feast made ready, that first act to crown ; 

Nor to peruse the solemn mystery 
Of the divine Menino's coming down 

To lead away th' elect, expectant three, 

^ ^,u ^i.ui tt:* nie-ht, at his own board to be. 

Stiilice it) that with him mey surely \v-i?r© 
1 hat night in Paradise ; for those who eame 

Next to the chapel found them as in prayer, 
Still kneeling — stiffened every lifeless frame, 

W.th han Is and eyes upraised as when they died, 

Toward the image of the Crucified* 

That mighty miracle spread far and wide, 

And thousands came the feast of death to see ; 

And all beholders, deeply edified, 

Returned to their own homes more thoughtfully, 

Musing thereon : with one great truth imprest— 

That "to depart and be with Christ is best." 



176 THE RIVER. 



THE RIVER. 



River ! River ! little River ! 

Bright you sparkle on your way, 
O'er the yellow pebbles dancing, 
Through the flowers and foliage glancing, 
Like a child at play. 

River ! River I swelling River ! 

On you rush o'er rough and smooth — 
Louder, faster, brawling, leaping 
Over rocks, by rose-banks sweeping, 
Like impetuous youth. 

River ! River ! brimming River ! 

Broad and deep and still as Time, 
Seeming still — yet still in motion. 
Tending onward to the ocean. 

Just like mortal prime. 

River ! River ! rapid River ! 

Swifter now you slip away ; 
Swift and silent as an arrow, 
Through a channel dark and narrow, 
Like life's closing day. 



THE RIVER, 177 



River ! River ! headlong River ! 

Down you dash into the sea ; 
Sea, that line hath never sounded, 
Sea, that voyage hath never rounded, 
Like eternity. 



17? TO THE LADY-BIRD. 



TO THE LADY-BIRD. 



"Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! fly away home" — 

The field-mouse is gone to her nest. 
The daisies have shut up their sleepy red eyes, 

And the bees and the birds are at rest. 

Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! fly away home — 

The glow-worm is lighting her lamp, 
The dew's falling fast, and your fine speckled wings 

Will flag with the close clinging damp. 

Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! fly away home — 

Good luck if you reach it at last : 
The owl's come abroad, and the bat's on the roam, 

Sharp-set from their Ramazan fast. 

Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! fly away home — 

The fairy bells tinkle ^far, 
Make haste, or they'll catch ye, and harness ye fa.«t, 

With a cobweb, to Oberon's car. 

Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! fly away home — 

Buf, as all serious people do, first 
Clear your conscience, and settle your worldly aflairs, 

And so be prepared for the worst. 



TO THE LADY-BIRD. 179 

Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! make a short shrift — 

Here's a hair-shirted Palmer hard by ; . 
And here's Lawyer Earwig to draw up your will, 

And we'll witness it, Death-Moth and I. 

Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! don't make a fuss — 

You've mighty small matters to give ; 
Your coral and jet, and — there, there — you can tack 

A codicil on, if you live. 

Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! fly away now 

To your house, in the old willow-tree. 
Where your children, so dear, have invited the ant, 

And a few cozy neighbours to tea. 

Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! fly away home, 

And if not gobbled up by the way, 
Nor yoked by the fairies to Oberon's car, 

You're in luck — and that's all I've to say 



THE 



SELECT LITERAEY WOEKS, 



PROSE AND VERSE, 



OF 



MRS. CAROLINE SOUTHEY: 



THE BIRTH-DAY, SOLITARY HOURS, THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE, OUR OLD 
CLOCK, THE SMUGGLER, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, &c. <tc. 



OJVE VOLUME, IJV TWO PARTS. 



PART II. 



HARTFORD: 
SILAS ANDRUS & SON, 



18 5 1. 

17 



SOLITARY HOUES 



nr 



CAROLINE SOUTHEY, 



AUTHORESS OK 

ELLEN FITZARTHUR ; THE WIDOW's TALE ; CHAPTERS ON CHURCHYARDS ; 
TALES OF THE FACTORIES; THE BIRTHDAY, KTC. 



HARTFORD: 

SILAS ANDRUS & SON. 

1851. 



DEDICATION. 



EIGHT REVEREND G. W. DOANE, 

BISHOP OF NEW JERSEY. 

Once have we met — once only face to face, 

A brief half hour, by the pale taper's light ; 

Yet should I grieve to be forgotten quite 
By one, whom Memory, while she holds her place, 
Will oft, with faithful portraiture, retrace. 

There are whom in our daily path we greet 

Coldly familiar — ev*n so to meet, 
Mind to mind stranger : while a moment's space — 
Mystical interchange of tone or look — 

Binds us to others in strong sympathy, 
Fast and forever .... Christian friend, this book 

And its small fellow, I inscribe to thee. 
Memorial of a meeting — not the last. 
If we believe, and hold the promise fast. 

Caroline Southet 

Oreta Hall, Keswick, 
Jan. 23, 1842. 

17* 



CONTENTS OF PART II 



PAOR 

The Broken Bridge, I 

On the near Prospect of Leaving Home. — 1818, 9 

[Sonnet.— 1818, . . 11 

Sunday Evening, ... ... .12 

The Manner's Hymn, . . . . . . . . . . IG 

Sonnet, written on reading Tasso's Life, . .... 18 

Sonnet, ............ ID 

Childhood, 120 

" It is not Death," .'^7 

Sonnet, .39 

The Ladye's Brydalle, . . 40 

Sonnet.— 1818, f,,) 

Abjuration, .......... . .')l 

Sonnet.— 1821, 5.") 

Beauty, ............ 5 1 

My Garden, C;] 

Autumn Flowers, .......... f!;) 

" Sufficient unto the Day is the Evil thereof," 71 

Gracious Rain, ........... 78 

The Welcome Home, 1820, 80 

To a Dying Infant ^3 

The Night-smelling Slock, 88 

Thoughts on Letter-vvnting, .1)1 

" I never cast a Flower away," 100 

" There is a Tongue in every Leaf," ....... 101 

The Mother's Lament, lO.'J 

My Evening, . . . . . . . . . . . lO,") 

Farewell to my Friends, 112 

The Primrose, 115 

Farewell to Greece, 117 

The Smuggler, ..119 

A fair Place and Pleasant, ......... 147 

The Three Friends, (Stanzas accompanying a Picture,) . . .149 

To my Birdie,' ........... 151 

Oh I Envie's an Uncannie Guet,t, ....... 1.54 

Ranger's Grave. March 1825 158 



THE BROKEN BRIDGE, 



It was a lovely autumn morn, 

So indistinctly bright, 
So many-hued, so misty, clear. 
So blent the glittering atmosphere, 

A web of opal light ! 

The morning mist, from the hill top, 

Sail'd off— a silvery flake — 
But still in the under vale it lay. 
Where the trees peer'd out like islands grey, 
Seen dimly, at the dawn of day. 

On a waveless pearly lake. 

And again, when we reach'd the woody rise 
That Bold re church doth crown. 

The filmy shroud was wafted by. 

And, rejoicing in his victory, 

The dazzling sun looked down. 

We reach'd the church, a two-mile walk, 

Just as the bell begun ; 
Only the clerk was stationed there. 
And one old man with silver hair. 

Who warm'd him in the sun. 



THE BROKEN BRIDGE. 



A gravestone for his seat — one hand 

On his old staff leant he ; 
The other fondly dallied 
With the bright curls of a young head 

That nestled on his knee. 

The child look'd up in the old man's face, 
Look'd up and laugh'd the while — 

Methought 'twas a beautiful sight to see 

The reflected light of its innocent glee 

(Like a sunbeam on a wither'd tree) 
In the old man's quiet smile. 

That simple group well harmonized 

With the surrounding scene — 
The old grey church, with its shadows deep, 
Where the dead seem'd hush'd in sounder sleep ; 
And all beyond, where the sun shone bright. 
Touching the tombstones with golden light, 

And the graves with emerald green. 

And a redbreast from the elms hard by 

His joyous matins sung ; 
That music wild contrasted well 
With the measured sound of the old church-bell, 

In its low square tower that's wung. 

I look'd, and listen'd, and listen'd still. 

But word spake never a one ; 
And I started like one awakened 
From a trance, when my young companion said, 

" Let's walk till the bell has done." 



THE BROKEN BRIDGE. 



So we turn'd away by the shady path 

That winds down the pleasant hill — 
Leaving the churchyard to the right 
High up, it brought us soon in sight 
Of the clear stream, so sparkling bright, 
That turns old Hayward mill. 



A. lovely scene ! but not therefore 

Young Edmund's choice, I doubt ; 
No, rather that with barbed snare 
For sport he oft inveigled there 

The perch and speckled trout. 

Stopt was the busy mill-wheel now, 

Snareless the rippling brook, 
And up the finny people leapt, 
As if they knew that danger slept — 
And Edmund ! he had wellnigh wept 
For lack of line and hook. 



" Look what a fish ! the same, I'll swear, 

That I hook'd yesterday — 
He's a foot long from head to tail — 
The fellow tugg'd like any whale. 
And broke my line — it's very true. 
Though you laugh, miss ! you always do 
At every thing I say." 

" Nay, gentle coz ! I did but smile — 

But — was he a foot long ?" 
" Ay, more, a foot and half— near two — 



THE BROKEN BRIDGE. 



There, there, there's no convincing youy 
One might as well to an old shoe 
Go whistle an old song." 

" Gramercy, coz ! I only ask'd, 

In admiration strong." 
" Ay, but you look at one so queer — 
Oh ! that I had my tackle here, 
You should soon see — well, never fear, 

I'll have him yet ere long." 

" Ay, doubtless — but, dear Edmund ! now 

Be murd'rous thoughts far hence. 
This is a day of peace and rest. 
And should diffuse in every breast 
Its holy influence." 

Such desultory chat we held, 

Still. idly saunt'ring on 
Towards the old crazy bridge, that led 
Across the stream by the mill-head — 

" Heyday !" said I, " 'tis gone !" 

And gone it was, but planks and piles 
Lay there, a fresh-brought load, 
And, till a better bridge was made. 
Flat stones across the brook were laid. 
So one might pass dry shod. 

Oiip 'vith firm foot and steady eye, 

Dryshod might pass the brook — 
But now, upon the further side. 



THE BROKEN BRIDGE. 



A woman and a child we spied, 
And those slippery stones the woman eyed 
With vex'd and angry look. 

And the child stood there — a pretty boy 

Some seven years old look'd he, 
Limber and lithe as a little fawn, 
And I marvell'd much that he sprung not on 
With a boy's activity. 

But his head hung down like a dew-bent flower, 

And he stood there helplessly ; 
And the woman (an old ill-favour'd crone !) 
Scowl'd at him, and said, in a sharp cross tone, 

" You're always a plague to me !" 

" What ails you, my little man ?" said I ; 

" Such a light free thing as you 
Should bound away, like a nimble deer, 
From stone to stone, and be over here 

Before one could well count two." — 

The child look'd up — to my dying day 

That look will haunt my mind. 
The woman look'd too, and she tuned her throat 
As she answer'd me, to a softer note, 

And, says she, "The poor thing's blind. 

" His father (who's dead) was my sister's son ; 

Last week his mother died too. 
lie's but a weakly thing, you see, 
Yet the parish has put him upon me, 

Who am but ill to do. 
18 



THE BROKEN BRIDGE. 



" And his mother made him more helpless still 

Than else he might have been, 
For she nursed him up like a little lamb, 
That in winter time has lost its dam ; — 

Such love was never seen ! 

" To be sure he was her only one, 

A helpless thing, you see ; 
So she toil'd and toil'd to get him bread, 
And to keep him neat, 'twas her pride, she said — 
Well, 'tis a hard thing, now she's dead, 

To have him thrown on me. 

" And now we shall be too late for church, 

For he can't get over, not he ! 
I thought the old bridge did well enough. 
But they're always at some alt'ring stuff, 

Hind'ring poor folks like we." 

I look'd about, but from my side 

Edmund was gone already. 
And with the child claspt carefully 
Across the stream, back bounded he, 

With firm foot, light and steady. 

" And the woman," said I, " won't you help her too ? 

Look there she waits the while." 
" Hang her, old cat ! if I do," quoth he, 
" To souse her into the midst 'twill be"-^ 

For my life I could not but smile. 

So we left her to cross as best she might, 
And I turn'd to the sightless child ; 



THE BROKEN BRIDGE. 



His old white hat was wound about 
With a rusty crape, and fair curls waved out 
On a brow divinely mild. 

And the tears still swam in his large blue eyes, 
And hung on his sickly cheek — 

Those eyes with their clouded vacancy, 

That looked towards, but not at me, 

Yet spoke to my heart more touchingly 
Than the brightest could ever speak. 

I took his little hand in mine, 

('Twas a delicate small hand,) 
And the poor thing soon crept close to me, 
With a timid familiarity, 

No heart could e'er withstand. 

By this time the woman had hobbled up — 

" Ah Goody ! what, safe ashore ?" 
Quoth Edmund — " I knew without help from me 
You'd paddle across" — Askance look'd she, 
But spake not a word ; so in company 
We moved on to church all four. 

But I felt the child's hand, still held in mine, 

With a shrinking dread compress'd ; 
" Do you love to go to church ?" I said — 
" Yes ;" and he hung down his little head, 
" But I love the churchyard best." 

*' The churchyard, my pretty boy ! And why ? 
Come tell me why, and how ?" — 



THE BROKEN BRIDGE. 



" Because — because — " and the poor thing 
Sobb'd out the words half whispering — 
" 'Cause mammy is there now." 

Feelings too deep for utterance 

Thrill'd me a moment's space ; 
At last—" My little friend," said I, 
" She's gone to live with God on high, 
In heaven, his dwelling-place. 

" And if you're good, and pray to Him, 

And tell the truth alway, 
And bear all hardships patiently. 
You'll go there too."—" But when ?" said he, 

" Shall I go there to-day V 

" Nay — you must wait till God is pleased 

To call you to his rest." 
" When will that be ?" he ask'd again. 
" Perhaps not yet, my child." — " Oh ! then, 

I love the churchyard best." 

And to the churchyard we were come. 

And close to the church door — 
And the little hand I held in mine, 
Still held, loath was I to resign ; / 

And from that hour the face so mild. 
And the soft voice of that orphan child, 
Have haunted me evermore. 



ON LEAVING HOME. 



ON THE NEAR PROSPECT OF LEAVING H0ME.-1818. 



Farewell ! farewell, beloved home ! 

Haven of rest ! a long farewell ; 
Where'er my weary footsteps roam, 

With thee shall faithful mem'ry dwell. 

They tell me other bowers will rise 
As fair, in fancy's future view- — 

They little think what tender ties. 
Dear home ! attach my heart to you. 

Their happy childhood has not play'd, 
Like mine, beneath thy sheltering roof; 

Thou hast not foster'd, in thy shade, 
Their after-years of happier youth. 

They cannot know, they have not proved 
The sympathies that make thee dear ; 

They have not here possess'd and loved — • 
They have not lost and sorrow'd here. 

In all around, they cannot see 

Relics of hopes, and joys o'ercast — 

They have not learnt to live, like me, 
On recollections of the past ; 
18* 



ON LEAVING HOME. 



To watch (as misers watch their gold) 

Tree, shrub, or flower, (frail, precious trust !) 

Planted and rear'd in days of old, 

By hands now mouldering in the dust ; 

To sanctify peculiar places, 

Associated in mem'ry's glass, 
With circumstances, times, and faces, 

That like a dream before me pass. 

These are the feelings — tliis the band. 

Dear home ! that knits my heart to thee ; 

No heart but mine can understand 
How strong that secret sympathy. 

Therefore, of scenes more fair than thee, 
They kindly speak to soothe mine ear ; 

Yes — fairer other scenes may be, 
But never any half so dear. 



SONNET— 1818. 11 



SONNET.-1818, 



Autumnal leaves and flow'rets ! ling'ring last — 

Pale sickly children of the waning year ! 

A lovelier race shall yet succeed ye here, 
When Nature (her long wintry torpor past) 
O'er the brown woods and naked earth doth cast 

Her vernal mantle. From its prison cell, 

Through mould and bark, the struggling germ shall swell, 
Bright buds, and beauteous blossoms, following fast — 
Oh ! I was wont a deep delight to taste. 

When the first primrose rear'd her modest head, 
And early violet on the wintry waste, 

The renovated soul of sweetness shed ! 
And they will wake again — and I shall be. 
Mine own beloved home ! far, far from them and thee ! 



J2 SUNDAY EVENING. 



SUNDAY EVENING 



I SAT last Sunday evening, 
From sunset even till night, 

At the open casement, watching 
The day's departing light. 

Such hours to me are holy, 
Holier than tongue can tell, 

They fall on my heart like dew 
On the parched heather-bell. 

The sun had shone bright all day — 
His setting was brighter still, 

But there sprang up a lovely air 
As he dropt down the western hill* 

The fields and lanes were swarming 
With holy day folks in their best, 

Released from their six days' cares 
By the seventh day's peace and rest. 

I heard the light-hearted laugh, 
The trampling of many feet ; 

I saw them go merrily by. 

And to me the sight was sweet. 



SUNDAY EVENING. 13 

There's a sacred soothing sweetness, 

A pervading spirit of bliss, 
Peculiar from all other times, 

In a Sabbath eve like this. 

Methinks, though I knew not the day, 

Nor beheld those glad faces, yet all 
Would tell me that Nature was keeping. 

Some solemn festival. 

The steer and the steed in their pastures 

Lie down with a look of peace, 
As if they knew 'twas commanded 

That this day their labour should cease. 

The lark's vesper song is more thrilling 

As he mounts to bid heaven good-night ; 
The brook sings a quieter tune, 

The sun sets in lovelier light : 

The grass, the green leaves, and the flowers, 

Are tinged with more exquisite hues : 
More odorous incense from out them 

Steams up with the evening dews. 

So I sat last Sunday evening 

Musing on all these things, 
With that quiet gladness of spirit 

No thought of this world brings : ' 

1 watch'd the departing glory, 

Till its last red streak grew pale, 
And earth and heaven were woven 

In twilight's dusky veil. 



14 SUNDAY EVENING. 



Then the lark dropt down to his mate 
By her nest on the dewy ground ; 

And the stir of human life 

Died away to a distant sound : 

All sounds died away — the light laugh, 
The far footstep, the merry call — 

To such stillness, the pulse of one's heart 
Might have echo'd a rose-leaf's fall ; 

And, by little and little, the darkness 
Waved wider its sable wings, 

Till the nearest objects and largest 
Became shapeless confused things — 



And, at last, all was dark — then I felt 
A cold sadness steal over my heart ; 

And I said to myself, " Such is life ! 
So its hopes and its pleasures depart 



" And when night comes — the dark night of age, 

What remaineth beneath the sun 
Of all that was lovely and loved ? 

Of all we have learnt and done ? 

" When the eye waxeth dim, and the ear 
To sweet music grows dull and cold, 

And the fancy burns low, and the heart — 
Oh, heavens ! can the heart grow old ? 

" Then, what remaineth of life 

But the lees with bitterness fraught ? 
What then ?"— But I check'd as it rose, 
And rebuked that weak, wicked thought. 



SUNDAY EVENING. 



And I lifted mine eyes up, and lo ! 

An answer was written on high 
By the finger of God himself, 

In the deptlis of the dark blue sky. 

There appeared a sign in the east — 
A bright, beautiful, fixed star ! 

And I look'd on its steady light 
Till the evil thoughts fled afar ; 

And the lesser lights of heaven 
Shone out with their pale soft rays, 

Like the calm unearthly comforts 
Of a good man's latter days ; 

And there came up a sweet perfume 
From the unseen flowers below. 

Like the savour of virtuous deeds, 
Of deeds done long ago — 

Like the mem'ry of well-spent time, 
Of things that were holy and dear ; 

Of friends, " departed this life 
In the Lord's faith and fear." 

So the burden of darkness was taken 
From my soul, and my heart felt light ; 

And I laid me down to slumber 
With peaceful thoughts that night. 



16 THE MARINER'S HYMN. 



THE MARINER'S HYMN 



Launch thy bark, Mariner! 

Christian, God speed thee ! 
Let loose the rudder bands — 

Good angels lead thee ! 
Set thy sails warily. 

Tempests will come ; 
Steer thy course steadily, 

Christian, steer home ! 

Look to the weather-bow, 

Breakers are round thee ; 
Let fall the plummet now, 

Shallows may ground thee. 
Reef in the foresail, there ! 

Hold the helm fast ! 
So — let the vessel wear — 

There swept the blast. 

" What of the night, watchman ? 
What of the night ?" 

" Cloudy — all quiet — 

No land yet — all's right !'* 

Be wakeful, be vigilant- 
Danger may be 



THE MARINER'S HYMN. 17 



At an hour when all seemeth 
Securest to thee. 

How ! gains the leak so fast ? 

Clear out the hold — 
Hoist up thy merchandise, 

Heave out thy gold ; — 
There — let the ingots go — 

Now the ship rights ; 
Hurra ! the harbour's near — 

Loj the red lights ! 

Slacken not sail yet 

At inlet or island ; 
Straight for the beacon steer, 

Straight for the high land ; 
Crowd all thy canvass on. 

Cut through the foam — 
Christian ! cast anchor now — 

Heaven is thy home ! 
19 



IS SONNET. 



SONNET, 

WRITTEN ON READING TASSO'S LIFE. 



Rest, weary spirit, from thy labours past — 

Thy doubts, thy wrongs, thy painful wanderings o'er, 
Through troubled seas, thy bark has reach'd at last 

The quiet haven of a friendly shore. 
Yes — " after death" — around thy pallid brow 

They wreathed the laurel, long, too long denied, 
For which, in all the ambitious ardent glow 

Of conscious worth, thy once proud spirit sigh'd. 
But when the mortal scene was closing fast 

Around thee, Tasso ! on that proffer'd crown 
What cold, contemptuous glances did'st thou cast ! 

Earth could no longer chain the spirit down, 
That, fixing on a heavenly crown its trust, 
Bequeath'd the earthly to its mouldering dust. 



SONNET. 19 



SONNET 



What if the tale was true, (as some believe,) 

That Tasso's love to Leonora gave ? 
Oh ! happy Leonora, to receive 

Such fame-conferring vows from such a slave ! 
Darling of many hearts ! Of short-lived fame 

The favoured minion ! born in courts to shine ! 
Yet, but for him, for his illustrious name. 

What deathless annals had recorded thine ? 
These are thy triumphs, Genius ! flames that burn 

With bright'ning glory through the mists of time — 
When earth-born spirits to the earth return, 

Thine, mounting from thine ashes, soars sublime ; 
And where they moulder, Contemplation^'s eye 
With awful rev'rence dwells, when kings forgotten lie. 



20 CHILDHOOD. 



CHILDHOOD 



Almost the happiest visitings of which my mind is at any time 
sensible, are those reminiscences of childhood, streaming in such 
vivid beauty across the chequered pathway of mature life, that 
frequently the past — the very past — seems recalled into actual 
existence, and I feel and think, and weep and smile again with 
the heart of a child! Ay, and I would not exchange my sensa- 
tions at such moments for half the pleasures (so called) that, as 
we advance in life, froth and sparkle in our mingled chalice. I 
am sure the frequent recurrence of such feelings is beneficial to 
the human heart — that it helps to purify — to re-organize, if I may 
so express myself, its best affections, so early repressed in the 
cold atmosphere of worldly intercourse, restoring a sort of youth- 
ful elasticity to its nobler powers, and, at the same time, a meek 
and childlike sense of entire dependence — no longer, indeed, on 
the tender earthly guardians of our helpless infancy, but on our 
Father which is in heaven — i/ie/r Father and ours — in whose sight 
we are all alike helpless, alike children. 

Our reminiscences of youth are not half so delightful. In the 
first place, they are more associated with persons and circumstan- 
ces, than with God and Nature, and with our earliest, ever our 
hest friends. And who has stepped on a few, a very few years 
beyond those of childhood, without having been made sensible, by 
painful experience, that this world is not one of unmixed happi- 
ness ? Disappointments arise, like little clouds at first, too soon, 



CHILDHOOD. 21 



perhaps, congregating into one heavy mass. The things, so de- 
lightful in prospect, prove on attainment unsatisfactory, or worse 
than unsatisfactory ; yea, gall and wormwood to us; or leading us 
on, like marsh- fires, through bog and brieif, over rough ways and 
even, they treacherously vanish from our sight, leaving us spent and 
heart-sick in the vain pursuit. Or, say we are every way suc- 
cessful — that Providence rewards our strenuous and honourable 
perseverance by the attainment of its object, and that the object, 
when obtained, gratifies our most sanguine anticipations ; still, is 
the fruition perfect ? Are there no specks upon the ripened fruit 
— no eating canker in its core ? Are none missing from among 
the dear ones who should rejoice in our success ? Are no eyes 
closed in the long sleep, that should have sparkled in the reflected 
light of our happiness ? Is no tongue silenced in the grave that 
would have blessed God for blessing us ? Are they all there ? 
Oh, heaven ! how little to be hoped ! And if but one is missing, 
what shall replace the void ? who shall say the fruition is jper- 
feet ? 

But suppose we are so peculiarly favoured — it is an awful ex- 
emption — as to escape common cares and crosses, and even to ar- 
rive at full maturity, still fenced about and sheltered by the guar- 
dian trees under whose shadow we grew up ; suppose all this to 
be, yet much will have occurred in the advance of intellect, and 
in the natural course of things, to temper the exuberance of youth- 
ful happiness. Yes ! in the advance of intellect ; for shall we 
not have acquired the knowledge of good and evil, and that by 
sin "came death into the world, and all our woe ?" And in the 
natural course of things — for, by the time we are men and wo- 
men, what alterations must have taken place in the persons, and 
things, and scenes, all woven together in our hearts by the magic 
of early association — by the time we are men and women, how 
many are gone down into the dust of those humble faithful friends, 
whose kind familiar faces beamed ever with such indulgent fond- 

19* 



22 CHILDHOOD. 



ness on our happy childhood ! Old servants, who waited per-i 
haps on our parents' parents — whose zealous attachment to them,; 
having passed on as an inheritance (and there are few more; 
valuable) to their immediate descendants, had become towards^ 
their ofTspring, towards ourselves, an almost idolatrous affection. 
Grey-headed labourers, whose good-natured indulgence had so 
patiently suiTered us to derange their operations in the garden orr 
the hay-field, with the grave mimicry of laborious exertion.,, 
Some grateful pensioner of our family — some neat old widow- 
who was wont to welcome us to her little cottage with a hoarded \\ 
offering of fruit or flowers, or may be a little rabbit white as theji 
driven snow, or a young squirrel, or a dormouse, poor captives of ; 
the woods ! devoted victims of our tormenting fondness ! Or the , 
permitted intruder — privileged, as it were, by long sufferance, to i 
claim the comforts of a draught of warm beer, and a meal of broken 
victuals, by the kitchen fire ; half mendicant, half pedlar, his 
back bowed down by the heavy pack, from which it was almost 
as inseparable as is that of a camel from its natural protuberance 
• — a few white hairs thinly sprinkled over a deeply furrowed 
brow, and straggling across a cheek whose ruddy tinge, still 
glowing through the dusky complexion peculiar to his people, 
told of free and constant communion with the winds of heaven, 
as they blow in their healthful freshness over moor and mountain, 
headland and sea-coast — and the eye deep-set under that shaggy 
ridge of eyebrow — The eye, with all its quick perceptions, its 
keen discrimination, its shrewd meanings, its habitual watchful- 
ness, its black sparkling lustre, almost undimmed as yet by sixty 
and five years of toil and travel, over the roughest ways of this 
world's rough thoroughfare ! And then that venerable beard ! so 
white and silky, that the old man stroked ever and anon with fond 
complacency, as it flowed with patriarchal majesty over his ample 
chest ! And the great loose wrapping garment of brown camlet, 
girt about with a broad leather girdle, to which were appended 



9^ 

CHILDHOOD. 

,0 Ions pouches containing spices and aromatic gums, "pre- 
ous " would the hoary Israelite aver, (and he was ever wont to 
roduce those fragrant wares with a mien of P-"'-'" -P-'^^?' 
sort of mysterious dignity,) "precious as those brought mto 
udea by the Queen of the South, when she came to behold the 
lorv and listen to the wisdom of King Solomon." • 

At such moments, doubtless, the ancient splendour of h. naUon 
.warn, as in a glass, before the mental viston of the old Heb ew, 
afte , as it were, towards him by the peculiar odours of those 
spices ; and he thought of the beauty o^/-- -' ^^ ^ 
.agnLence of the Temple, and of the nches of Solomon, the 
^oldand silver and ivory, the apes and peacocks, and the prectou 
tl^^g „ees-and then it might be, that his bearmg became 
loftie for a moment, and he forgot that all these thtngs had 
passed away-that his kindred, and his tribe, and hts people, 
::; scattered over the face of the earth, a despised and perse 
euted remnant, " a hissing and a reproach" -ongst all nat.ons 
and that he himself was poor, old, and houseless, scoffed ^ and 
reviled by the ignorant, the wanton, and the heartless, and tha 
he very children, the little village children, towards whom hts 
kind olJheart yearned tenderly, fled in terror from "the w.cked 
Jew " or annoyed him as he passed with their puny msults. 

How unintentionally (from attempting a slight sketch a mere 
outline of generalities) have I been betrayed into the delmeatton 
of thy portrait, old Isaac! Well-be it so. It were worth 
tracing by the pencil of an abler artist. I see thee now-even 
such as /have described thee-luxuriously established m a warm 
corner of our wide kitchen fire-place-thy huge, dusl.y, knot ed 
staff slipped through the straps of that lumbermg V^'-^^'l^ 
triple knot of the red bundle, both of which are carefully depos- 
ited on the bench beside thee. 

The faithful companion of thy wanderings, the rough-haired, 
fox-coloured, bandy-legged cur, with one ear cocked up so know- 



24 CHILDHOOD. 



ingly, posted between thy knees, and from thence intently eyeing 
that attractive platter on which the kitchen damsel is heaping up 
a meal of savoury scraps, whereof he hopes incontinently to 
partake with thee. And thine own eyes, friend Isaac, are not 
less curiously intent in noting the preparation of that same olio— 
and earnestly dost thou enjoin the good-humoured lass, who is 
preparing the regale for her old acquaintance, to take special heed 
that there entereth no scrap of the forbidden thing— no portion of 
swine's flesh amongst the ingredients thereof— Well thou art 
assured that kind-hearted maiden will not knowingly cheat the i^ 
old man, or make light of the Jew's conscientious scruples. But ! 
all are not so kind to thee ; and, if thou wert^iven to complaint, 
many a tale could'st thou tell, that might kindle on Christian 
cheeks a burning blush for the indignities heaped on the unoffend- 
ing Jew.— Once— (the smart of that bitter jest being yet recent) 
—thou didst relate how, being sore spent with a long day's travel 
through deep and wintry ways, thou camest at nightfall to a little 
village alehouse, wherein the hearth blazed invitingly, and good 
entertainment was promised to the weary traveller— so, blessing 
the God of Abraham who had brought thee to that safe abiding, 
place, thou enteredst therein, and taking thy place at humble 
distance from the Christians assembled round the hearth, wert 
content to feel, even so far off, the kindly warmth of the glowing 
peat and crackling fagots flashing against thy wealhrebeaten face, 
and the outspread palms of thine old withered hands. — And when 
all were served, thy humble meal was set before thee, respecting 
which thou hadst not failed to whisper the prohibitory charge 
With unoffending meekness, and thou wert about to break thy long 
fast, with cheered and grateful heart— when lo ! the well-known 
pounds broke forth beside thee— the sound of derision and 
mockery, and thou wert bid " be honest for once, if a Jew could 
be honest — and taste and own the delicious flavour of the pork 
meat, wherewithal thy mess was daintily seasoned."—" Dat vast 



CHILDHOOD. 



55 



.rd to bear, for me vast very hungry," said Isaac, when he had 
Id his little tale of wrongs; " but de Jew mosh bear all-so. 
,e did eat my dry bread, and blesh God, and forgif dem. 

Ah, cunning Isaac ! well choosest thou thy time to display thy 
ore of rare and curious merchandise ! A glance of that rem- 
ant of edging (just enougli for a cap) and the hope o wheedhng 

from thee a bargain, will be worth to thee a mess like Benja- 
„i„V_And that other maiden-how courteously she gives into 
hine old bonv, vein-embossed hand, that comforting cup of wai-m 
vhite-frothing ale! her eyes wandering the while towards that 
.eautiful gold brooch-" ««/ gold, set round with real rubies, 
hat looks as if it were made on purpose to hold her sweetheart s 
«ir, the honest price whereof should be ten shillings, but which, 
for her sake, "for the sake of her pretty face, God bless it . 
thou wilt let her have for half-a-crown. Happy girl !-But there 
istands one, a human relic of old-fashioned times, who frowns 



reproval of such vain extravagance.-When she began the world, 

"a 3 

interest, or goiiL.g .-5 1 1 „„- 

least, and a chest of drawers, against she came to settle and have 



eproval ot sucn vain eAutiva^c.ixv.v. 

: a young servant girl thought of putting out her little savings to 
-netting together a few creditable things, a good bed at 



a family ; but now, a silly wench, without a good smock to her 
back, will spend a month's wages in a pack of trumpery, fit for 
nothing but to figure out a puppet-show madam." 

Ah Goody ! those were good old times, but we live in wicked 
new ones, and Isaac's lures triumph over thy rhetoric; a little 
ungrateful of thee, by the by, to employ it to his detriment-when 
did he ever forget-at which of his annual visitations, to replenish 
thy mull gratis with a portion of his best rappee ?-that which 
thou lovest-uncontaminated with aught of modern outlandish 
intermixture ?-and even now-placable Isaac !-see, he tenders 
the accustomed tribute ;-and more-he has not forgotten thy 
child-the child of thy master's child-thy darling-the spoiled 
darlin. of thine age-she whom thou religiously believest ha« 



2G 



CHILDHOOD. 



not her fellow among all the children of this degenerate aae_; 
scion from the true old slock. ° ' 

Isaac also arrogates to lumself a peculiar interest in thy dar 
hng's fate; for did he not foretell the important event of her iirsi 
appearance in this nether sphere ? About a month before her en 
trance thereupon (enlightened, probably, by pretty certain indica 
tions,) the old man, having transacted his annual traffic, wound 
np his thanks and his farewell to the family, with the oracular, 
remark, that " next time old Isaac should call, dere would be one. 
fine young shentlemans, or beautiful little missy"_the latter he 
inclined to think, for reasons best known to himself (the old mam 
pretended to some degree of occult science), and he would be sure - 
to bnng a present for " de little lady." And, faithful to his prom ; 
ise, the ne.xt winter old Isaac (whose first inquiry was for "little- 
Missy," and there she was, sure enough) put into her baby arms^ 
a little artificial rose-tree in its pot of painted card-paper, and the 
kind old man bestowed a blessing with his gift, which latter was 
he said, the work of his "own .A,7c;-his good daughter, Leah "' ' 
Isaac had then a little home, in some narrow alley of a large dis 
tant city, and that dutiful child abode there; and her lovin.. wel 
come made it a paradise to the old man, in the short and far-off 
intervals of his lonely wanderings. Once he returned at the ap 
pointed time, but there was no one to receive him-the door was 
locked— the shutter closed-no smoke arose from the chimney- 
his Leah was cold in her grave. From that time, Isaac was lit 
erally and in good sooth " a stranger and a pilgrim upon earth " 
But he loved to speak of his " dear Leah ! his good shM," to 
those who could feel for the poor Jew, and especially to his old 
fnend-the faithful nurse of little Missy-the patroness of all 
who were afflicted or distressed, or borne down by oppression or 
unmerited contumely. 

Well-old Isaac has replenished her little snuff-box, and she is 
curiously inspecting his store of knitting-needles and nutmeg. 



CHILDHOOD. 



27 



■raters— and there, close behind her— now creeping closer still— 
.ow slipping round, half-hidden by Goody's apron— peeps "little 
^issy"— for the sound of a well-known voice has lured her from 
ler lessons (no very difficult seduction), and she has stolen into 
,he kitchen— the forbidden precincts— and she has spied out her 
)ld friends Isaac and his dog ; and in a moment she stands beside 
„he old man's knee, and her tiny hands are patting Tinker's head, 
ind her merry tongue is bidding both welcome— both in a breath 
-Isaac and Tinker ; and her young eyes are roving curiously 
.towards the well-known pack, from which many a little watch, 
many pretty box and pincushion is sure to be purchased annu- 
,ally, in compliance with the baby-longing, seldom disciplined by 

.denial. 

And great joy and profound admiration doth old Isaac manifest 
•at the sight of " little Missy,"— profound admiration at her won- 
! derful growth, albeit she might, at eight years old, pair for stature 
with the tiniest elf that waits in the court circle of the Fairy 
Queen, under the broad shadow of a fern leaf. And Isaac has 
not forgotten " little Missy"— and lo ! from an inner recess of 
that mysterious cabinet, forth draws he sundry coloured cards 
covered with cotton, and curiously giUed with rows of shining- 
lances are they ?— spears to transfix larks ?-or spits to roast 
them 1 Neither, in truth, but harmless needles (such, seemingly, 
as were used in Brobdignag)— valuable implements of housewi- 
fery, fraught with peculiar virtues, and not elsewhere to be oh- 
tained for bve or money. So affirmeth Isaac, on presenting one 
(slowly extracted from the precious file), his annual ofl:ering to 
u little Missy ;"— and " little Missy" graciously accepts the same 
—graciously and gratefully— she means to be very grateful, im- 
plicitly believing in the intrinsic value of that costly gift, how- 
ever puzzled in her own mind as to what purpose she shall apply 
it—" Isaac's first present,"— the first year of her birth (which was 
carefully set by for her till she was old enough to have it in her 



28 CHILDHOOD. 



own keeping), " was a much prettier present, she thinks. Not, £ 
she dares say, more valuable, because Isaac says the needles arei 
worth so much ! — but she does not much love needles, — she al-li 
ways loses them, or pricks her fingers with them, — and she hatcs't 
sewing ; but the little sham rose-tree was a beautiful thing ! — J 
and she has got it still, standing in a flower-pot just like life, — J 
with moss, real moss, about the roots, and a full-blown rose, withli 
ever so many buds, all growing upon one stem, with their green li 
leaves about them ! — Oh, that ivas a beautiful present ! — andi' 
dear old Isaac was so good to bring it for her ! — and she will love ai 
Isaac and Tinker as long as she lives !" \ 

And Nursie will love them too ; — ay, Isaac and Tinker, — be- . 
cause her darling patronises both, and because Isaac has the ' 
sense to see all the darling's perfections. And, " after all, he is 
an honest old soul, — and to be sure that edging is cheap, she must 

own that, — and if the brooch is gold, and she herself does not 

care if she buys some trifle for old acquaintance' sake." Ah, 
cunning Isaac ! most persuasive of pedlars ! — What female heart 
can withstand the temptations of thy pack, and of thy honied 
tongue ? 

After many annual visits paid and welcomed, a year came, and 
passed away,---a whole year, — and old Isaac came not. About 
January had been the usual time of his periodical apparition, — 
about the middle, or toward the latter end of January. General- 
ly, it chanced that there was snow upon the ground; and so, 
when snow began to fall about that season, it was looked on as a 
herald of the old man's approach ; — and hitherto he had not failed 
to present himself at the door, within a few days of the usual 
period, swinging off the snow-flakes from his old hat, and slipping 
aside his cumbrous pack, in full assurance of the admission never 
denied him at . It was pleasant to note that humble con- 
fidence of courteous welcome. It is pleasant to mark the least 
link of that great chain, which draws, or should draw, together 



CHILDHOOD. 29 

ill Christian hearts, by the reciprocation of kindly offices and 
vnnobling gratitude, and by a sense of entire and general depend- 
lince on the universal Benefactor. 

!, But in the year I spoke of, January came, and the snow fell, 
ind almost the whole stock of tapes, and bobbins, and needles, 
wvas expended in the house ; and from day to day its renewal was 
ieferred, for such small wares had from « auld lang syne" been 
i^early purchased of Isaac, and "one would not but wait a little 
ivhile for the poor old man." But he was waited for more than « a 
little while," and very hard weather set in. The river was frozen 
all over, and the country people walked over it to market, and the 
boys built a house on it with great blocks of ice. The little birds 
came famishing to the window-sills, and even into the dwellings 
of man ; for the running brooks became steel, and the soft earth 
iron, and the snow— the hard, glittering snow— lay deep all over 
the country ; in many places choking up the high-roads, and 
covering the tops of the highest hedges ; and in less frequented 
ways— over commons, and wastes, and in coppice dingles, and in 
the sinuous clefts of the hills— not an indication of track, or path- 
way, not a human footmark, nor a single hoof-print, was discern- 
iblo; and by those intricate ways, connected with the small 
hamlets, where he carried on his yearly traffic, it was old Isaac's 
wont to travel,— and now he came not!— And, "Poor Isaac!"— 
" Poor old soul !"— was often sorrowfully uttered in the family:— 
« What can have become of him ? The old man grows feeble, 
too, and the days are so short !"— And enquiring eyes were 
strained, early and late, in quest of his tall, solitary figure, to- 
wards the quarter where it might be expected to appear, breaking 
the dreary horizontal line, where, reversing the general effect of 
nature, the black sky was seen descending, like a leaden vault, 
to the verge of the white desert beneath. 

Early and late, anxious looks were sent in quest of the aged 
wanderer, into the dark cheerless morning, and more earnestly 

20 



30 CHILDHOOD. 



still into the lowering twilight. And if the dogs barked after 
nightfall, and an approaching step was heard, willing feet hasten =j 
ed to the door, and ready hands withdrew the bolts, and gladi 
tongues were tuning to exclaim, "Come in, come in, good] 
Isaac !" But January passed, and February slipt away. The 
snow melted from off the face of the earth, the unfrozen brooks 
ran rapidly again, and the little birds sang merrily, for sweet 
Spring was come, but the old man came not. He never came 
again. 

He was long remembered — long spoken of— long missed by 
every individual of the family. But I missed him most, and re- 
membered him longest. Peculiarly, even at that early age, a 
creature of habit, inanimate things themselves were playfellows 5 
to me— a solitary child. Clinging fondly to all I knew and loved, , I 
and to all early associations, it pained me to miss the most insi^ 
nificant object I had been long accustomed to behold ; and scarce- .; 
ly a leaf or flower dropped from its stalk but I did miss it, and 
mourn that I should see it no more. And " Poor old Isaac ! Poor 
Tinker !"— Many Januaries passed, and for many after seasons the 
snow fell upon the earth, and melted from off it, before I ceased, 
at sight of the first flakes, to exclaim thus in mournful recollec- 
lions. — And this was sorrow — real sorrow — the beginning of sor- 
row, and therefore (trivial as some may deem it) a touching and 
an awful thing to contemplate. Who would gaze without a thrill 
of intense feeling on the few first drops that ooze slowly through 
the straining timbers of some mighty dike, previous to the burst- 
ing up of its imprisoned waters? And who can look but with 
deep and tender emotion on the first prelusive tears that escape 
through the unclosing floodgates of human sorrow ? 

Yes— by the time we start forward on the career of youth, if 
even our nearest and dearest friends still encircle us, how many 
of those persons to whom we were linked by habit or afl^ection 
(though in far less powerful bands), must have finished their al- 



CHILDHOOD. 31 



lotted race! Even irrational creatures— the very animals that 
were wont to range about the house and fields— many of them,, 
perhaps, our familiar friends and playmates— Not one of these 
can have dropped down into the dust unmissed ; and in the world 
we are entering, how many of the objects we shall most eagerly 
pursue, may fail to afford us half the gratification we have known 
in those childish, innocent attachments ! Our very pleasures— 
our- most perfect enjoyments in mature life, bring with them a 
certain portion of disquietude— a craving after fresher or higher 
enjoyments— an anxious calculation on the probable stability of 
those already ours— a restless anticipation of the future. And 
there, in that very point, consists the great barrier separating 
youth from childhood. The child enjoys every thing that is, ab- 
stractedly from all reference to the past, all enquiry into the fu- 
ture. He feels that he is happy, and satisfied with that blest per- 
ception, searches not into the nature, or probable duration of his 

felicity. 

There may be— there are in after life, intervals of far sublimer 
happiness ; for if Thought, if Knowledge, bringeth a curse with 
it, casting as it were the taint of corruption and the shadow of 
death over all that in this world seemed fair, and good, and last- 
ing, and perfect, reason, enlightened by revelation, and sustained 
by faith, hath power to lift up that gloomy veil, and to see beyond 
it " the glory which shall be revealed hereafter."— But, with the 
exceptioTi of such moments— when the heart communes with 
Heaven— when our thoughts are in a manner like the angels as- 
cending and descending on those bright beams of celestial inter- 
course — what feelings of the human mind can be thought so near- 
ly to resemble those of the yet guiltless inhabitants of Eden, as 
the sensations of a young and happy child ? It is true, he has 
been told and taught to read the story of " man's first disobedience 
and his fall." He has been told that there is such a thing as 
death, and that it happeneth to all men. It has even been ex- 



32 CHILDHOOD. 



plained to him, with the simple illustrations best calculated to im- 
press the awful subject on his young mind ; and his earnest eyes 
have filled with tears, at hearing that such or such a dear friend, 
on whose knee he has been wont to sit, whose neck he has often 
clasped so lovingly, is taken away out of the world, and buried 
under the earth in the churchyard. His eyes will fill with tears 
—his little bosom will heave with sobs at this dismal hearing, and 
for a few brief moments his grief refuseth to be comforted. But 
then he is told that the dear friend is gone to God—that his spirit 
is gone to God to live for ever, and be always happy in heaven— 
and that if he is a good child he will some day go to heaven also, 
and live always with him there. 

He listens to this with the same joyful eagerness as if he were 
promised to go the next day in a fine coach, to spend the whole 
day with the friend whose absence, more than whose death, his 
little heart deplores so bitterly. He cannot conceive death. He 
cannot yet be made sensible that it hath entered into the world 
with sin, and is amalgamated with all that therein is. He sports 
at morning among the flowers of the field, unmindful that they 
shall fade and perish in the evening, and that the place thereof 
shall know them no more. He revels in the bright Summer sun- 
set—in the warm noonday of Autumn— without anticipating the 
approach of Winter. He leaps up joyously into the arms of ven- 
erable old age, without glancing onwards towards the almost cer- 
tainty, that that grey head must be laid in the dust, ere his own 
bright ringlets cluster with darker shade over a manly forehead. 

There is in childhood a holy ignorance, a beautiful credulity, 
a peculiar sanctity, that one cannot contemplate without some- 
thing of the reverential feeling with which one should approach 
beings of a celestial nature. The impress of the divine nature 
is, as it were, fresh on the infant spirit— fresh and unsullied by 
contact with this withering world. One trembles lest an impure 
breath should dim the clearness of its bright mirror. And how 



CHILDHOOD. 83 



perpetually must those, who are in the habit of contemplating 
hildhood — of studying the characters of little children — feel, and 
repeat to their own hearts, " Of such is the kingdom of Heaven !'* 
Ay, which of us, of the wisest amongst us, may not stoop to re- 
ceive instruction and rebuke from' the example of a little child ? 

Which of us, by comparison with its sublime simplicity, its 
adorable ingenuousness, has not reason to blush for the littleness 

the insincerity — the worldliness — the degeneracy of his own ? 
How often has the innocent remark, the artless question, the nat- 
ural acuteness of a child, called up into older cheeks a blush of 
accusing consciousness ! 

How often might the prompt, candid, unqualifying, honourable 
decision of an infant, in some question of right or wrong, shame 
the hesitating, calculating evasiveness of mature reason ! " Why 
do you say so, if it is not true ?" — " You must not keep that, for 
it is not yours." — " If I do this, or that, it will make God an- 
gry," are remarks I have heard from the lips of " babes and 
sucklings ;" the first in particular, that probing question, to the 
no small embarrassment of some who should have been their 
teachers f 

When sick and weary in heart and spirit of this world's pomps 
and vanities — its fatiguing glare — its feverish excitement — its 
treacherous hollowness — its vapid pleasures and artificial tastes 
— how refreshing it is to flee back in thought to the time when, 
with the most exquisite capability of enjoyment, we were satisfied 
with the most simple objects of interest ! It is incomprehensible to 
me how any after-scenes can ever efface the impression of those 
early pleasures. For my own part, I am not ashamed to repeat, 
that some of the happiest moments of my present existence are those, 
when some trifling incident calls up former thoughts and feelings, 
renewing as it were within me the heart of a child. Surely 
many there are must feel with me — must enjoy at times this ren- 
ovation of the spirit in its early freshness ! They (to them alone 

20* 



34 CHILDHOOD. 



I address myself) will comprehend the thrilling recollections with 
which, in my saunter round the garden, I stop to contemplate the 
little patch of ground, once my exclusive property, where flowers 
and weeds, vegetables and young timber-trees, were crammed in 
together with covetous industry and zeal, all improvident of the 
future. They will understand, why the fairest flowers of the gar- 
den or the greenhouse are often discarded from my hand or my 
bosom, to make way for a wild rose, a harebell, or a field orcas — 
treasures accessible to me, of which I might at pleasure rifle the 
hedges and the meadows, when the cultured darlings of Flora 
were forbidden sweets, or sparingly yielded, and carefully gath- ' 
ered ybr me, a restriction fatally diminishing in my eyes the value 
of their coveted beauties. They will understand (how pleasant it, 
is to feel one's self understood — and, alas, how rare !) why, toi 
this day, my eye watches with tender interest, my ear drinks in 
with pleased attention, the familiar approach, the abrupt song of 
the domestic Robin — not only because he is the acknowledged 
friend of man, and a sweet warbler when the general voice of: 
song has ceased amongst our groves — but because the time has' 
been, when I looked upon the eloquent-eyed bird with a tender 
veneration almost awful, firmly believing, as I believed in my 
own existence, every syllable of tliat pathetic history, " the Babes 
in the Wood." How the false guardian, the unnatural uncle, 
having decoyed those pretty innocent creatures into the depths of 
the dark forest, left them, without food, to perish there ; and how 
they wandered about for many, many days, living on hips, and 
haws, and wild bramble-berries (delicious food, I thought, if ono 
could have had enough !) — till at last, growing weak and weary, 
their poor feet pricked and bleeding with thorns, and their tender 
limbs bruised and torn amongst the bushes, they laid themselves 
down at the foot of an old mossy oak — their little arms about 
each other's neck — their soft cheeks pressed close together — 
and so fell asleep, and never woke again, but lay there day 



CHILDHOOD. ^ 



rftei- day, stiff and cold, two little pale corses; and how Robm 
ledbreast-pious Robin Redbreast !-hopped about them, and 
vatclied them sorrowfully, with his large dark eyes "of human 
Cleaning;" and how he brought dry leaves in his bill, one by 
,ne, and strewed them so thickly as to cover up from sight at 
last the faces and forms of the dead children. There must be 
who have believed as I believed-who have wept as I wept at the 
relation of that mournful history. They will, perhaps, also re- 
n>ember, as I do, to have held in their hands the pretty speckled 
insect, the Lady Bird, and to have addressed to it, as it pi-epred 
to fly, the half sportive, half serious warning, "Lady Bird, Lady 
Bird ' fly away home ; your house is on fire, your children will 
tarn '"-Bat possibly even they will laugh at my confession, that 
I had a sort of vague, mysterious idea of some real meaning (m- 
telUgible to the beautiful insect) being couched in my metrica 
warnin.. ! And they will laugh still more unrestrainedly when I 
avow, that I have often shuddered, with superstitious horror, when 
the nursemaid, on seeing me pull the small heart-shaped pods of 
the white chickweed, has startled me with the vulgar saying, 
" Ah, naughty child ! you've plucked your mother s heart out . 

Be it as it may ;-I still, even to this hour, connect with those 
trivial things-those nursery tales-those senseless saymgs-the 
recollection of mental impressions so vivid, so delicious, and oc 
caionally so painful, yet secretly and intently dwelt on, ^v«h a 
strange kind of infatuation-especially those feelings of enthusi- 
a.tic affection to particular individuals I was far too shy to ex- 
m-ess in half their glowing warmth-and those vague, dreamy, 
iuperstitious reveries, and awfully delightful terrors, that always 
made me court solitude and darkness, though the sound of a fall- 
ing leaf, or a nibbling mouse, would at such times set my heart 
beating audibly, and, in the stillness and blackness of night, my 
very breathing would seem impeded, and I have closed my eye- 
lids, and kept them fast shut for hours, fearing to encounter the 



36 CHILDHOOD. 



sight of some grisly phantom ; then opened them in sudden des- 
peration, and in the expectation of seeing — I knew not what. I j 
still, even to this hour, at sight of many insignificant objects, 
recall to mind so vividly what were formerly my feelings associ- 
ated with such, that the intermediate space between past and 
present seems in a manner annihilated, and I forget my actual 
self in the little happy being, whose heart and fancy luxuriated 
in a world of beauty and happiness, such as the most inspired 
dream of poet or philosopher has never yet portrayed. 

The world of a child's imagination is the creation of a far 
holier spell than hath ever been wrought by the pride of learning, 
or the inspiration of poetic fancy. Innocence, that thinketh no 
evil ; ignorance, that apprehendeth none ; hope, that hath experi- 
enced no blight ; love, that suspecteth no guile. These are its 
ministering angels — these wield a wand of power, making this 
earth a paradise. Time, hard, rigid teacher ! — Reality, rough, 
stern reality ! — World, cold, heartless world ! — that ever your 
sad experience, your sombre truths, your killing colil, your with- 
ering sneers, should scare those gentle spirits from their holy 
temple ! — And wherewith do ye replace them ? With caution, 
that repulseth confidence ; with doubt, that repelleth love ; with 

a 

reason, that dispelleth illusion ; with fear, that poisoneth enjoy- 
ment; in a word, with knowledge — that fatal fruit, the tasting 
whereof, at the first onset, cost us Paradise ! 

And the tree of knowledge — transplanted to this barren soil, 
together with its scanty blossoms — doth it not bring forth thorns 
abundantly ? And of the fruits that ripen — have any yet ripen- 
ed to perfection ? — what hand hath ever plucked unscathed ? 

Blessed be He who hath placed within our reach that other 
tree, once guarded by the flaming sword of the cherubim (now 
no longer forbidden), whereof, whoever hungereth, may taste and 
live ! 



IT IS NOT DEATH." 37 



"IT IS NOT DEATH." 



It is not Death — it is not Death, 

From which I shrink with coward fear ; 
It is, that I must leave behind 

All I love here. 

It is not Wealth — it is not Wealth, 

That I am loth to leave behind ; 

Small store to me (yet all I crave) 

Hath fate assiou'd. 

o 

It is not Fame — it is not Fame, 

From which it will be pain to part ; 
Obscure my lot — but mine was still 
An humble heart. 

It is not Health — it is not Health, 

That makes me fain to linger here ; 
For I have languish'd on in pain 

This many a year. 

It is not Hope — it is not Hope, 

From which I cannot turn away ; 
Oh, earthly Hope hath cheated me 

This many a day. 



38 "IT IS NOT DEATH." 

But there are Friends — but there are Friends, 

To whom I could not say, " Farewell !" 
Without a pang more hard to bear 

Than tongue can tell. 

But there's a thought — but there's a thought, 

Will arm me with that pang to cope ; 
Thank God ! we shall not part like those 
Who have no hope. 

And some are gone — and some are gone — 

Methinks they chide my long delay — 
With whom, it seem'd, my very life 
Went half away. 

But we shall meet — but we shall meet, 

Where parting tears shall never flow ; 
And, when I think thereon, almost 
I long to go. 

The Saviour wept — the Saviour wept 

O'er him he loved — corrupting clay ! — 
But then He spake the word, and Death 
Gave up his prey ! — 

A little while — a little while, 

And the dark Grave shall yield its trust ; 
Yea, render every atom up 

Of human dust. 

What matters then — what matters then 

Who earliest lays him down to rest ? — 
Nay, "to depart, and be with Christ," 
Is surely best. 



SONNET. 39 



SONNET 



Traveller of Life ! what plant of virtues rare 

Seeketh thy curious eye ? 'Mongst earth's excess, 

Will none but the exotic, Happiness, 
Content thine eager longing ? Fruitless care ! 

It groweth not beneath our clouded skies. 

But when amongst the groves of Paradise 
The soft winds wanton, haply they may bear, 

From thence to earth, some vagrant flower or leaf. 

Some fluttering petal, exquisite as brief 
Its od'rous beauty ! — Oh, if to thy share 

It fall, one blossom on thy path to find — 

Quick ! snatch it to thine heart, ere the rough wind 
Despoil its freshness. It will fade e'en there ; 
Thou can'st not quite exclude this cold world*s nipping air. 



40 THE LADYl S BRYDALLE. 



THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. 



" Come hither, come hither, my little foot-page I 

And beare to my gaye Ladye 
This ringe of the good red gowde, and be sure 

Rede well what she tellethe to thee. 

" And take tent, little Page, if my Ladye's cheeke 

Be with watchinge and weepinge pale ; 
If her locks are unkempt, and her bonnie eyes redde ; 

And come back and tell me thye tale. 

" And marke, little Page, when thou showest the ringe, 

If she snatchethe it hastelye, 
If the red blude mount up her slendere throate 

To her forehedde of ivorye. 

" And take good heede, if, for gladnesse or griefe, 

So changethe mye Ladye's cheere. 
You shalle know bye her eyes, if their lichte laugh oute 

Through the miste of a startinge tea re. 

" (Like the Summer sunne thro' a morninge cloude), 

There needethe no furthere token ne, 
That mye Ladye brighte, to her owne true Knighte, 

Hath keepit her faithe unbrokenne. 



THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. 41 

" Now ride, little Page ! for the sunne peeres oute 

Owre the rimme of the eastern heavenne, 
And backe thou must bee, with thy tidinges to mee, 

Ere the shadowe falles far at evenne." — 

Awaye, and awaye ! and he's farre on his waye 

The little foot-page alreddye; 
For he's backed on his Lordes own gallante graye, 

That steede so swifte and steddye. 

But the Knighte stands there like a charmedde manne, 

Watchinge with eare and eye. 
The clatteringe speede of his noble steede, 

That swifte as the windes doth flye. 

But the windes and the lichtninges are loitererres alls 

To the glaunce of a luver's mynde, 
And Sir Alwynne, I trow, had thocht Bonnybelle slowe, 

Had her fleetnesse outstrippit the wynde. 

Beseemed to him, that the sunne once more 

Had stayedde his course that daye ; 
Never sicke manne longed for morninge licht, 

As Sir Alwynne for eveninge graye. 

But the longeste daye must ende at laste, 

And the brighteste sunne must sette ; 
Where stayde Sir Alwynne at peepe of dawne, 

There at even he stayethe him yette. 

And he spyethe at last — " Not soe, not soe, 

^Tis a small graye cloude, Sir Knighte, 
That risethe up like a courser's hedde 

On that borderre of gowden licht.'* 
21 



42 THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. 

" Bot harke ! bot harke ! for I heare it nowe, 

'Tis the comynge of Bonnybelle !" 
" Not soe, Sir Knighte ! from that rockye height, 

*Twas a clatteringe stone that felle." 

" That slothefuUe boye ! but I'll thinke no more 

Of him and that lagginge jade to-daye." 
" Righte, righte, Sir Knighte !" — " Nay, now by this lichte, 

Here comethe my Page, and my gallante graye !" 

" Howe nowe, little Page ! ere thou lichteste downe, 

Speake but one worde out hastylye ; 
Little Page ! hast thou seen mye Ladye luve ? 

Hathe mye Ladye keepit her faith with me ?" 

" I've seene thye Ladye luve, Sir Knighte, 

And welle hathe she keepit her faithe with thee.'^ 

" Lichte downe, lichte downe, mye trusty Page ! 
A berrye browne barbe shall thy guerdon be. 

" Telle on, telle on — Was mye Ladye's cheeke 

Pale as the lilye, or rosye redde ? 
Did she put the ringe on her finger smalle ? 

And what was the very firste worde she sedde ?" 

*' Pale was thye Ladye's cheeke, Sir Knighte ! 

Blent with no streake of the rosye redde ; 
I put the ringe on her finger smalle. 

But there is no voice amongste the dedde." 



There are torches hurryinge to and froe 
In Raeburne Towerre to-nighte ; 



THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. ' 43 

And the chapelle dothe glowe with lampes alsoe, 
As if for a brydalle ryte. 

But where is the Bryde ? and the Brydegroonne where ? 

And where is the holye prieste ? 
And where are the guestes that shoulde biddenne be, 

To partake of the marriage feast ? 

The Bryde from her chamberre descendethe slowe, 
And the Brydegroome her hande hath ta'en ; 

And the guestes are mette, and the holy Prieste 
Precedethe the marriage traine. 

The Bryde is the fayre Maude Winstanlye, 

And Dethe her sterne Brydegroome; 
And her father followes his onlye childe 

To her mothere's yawninge tombe. 

An agedde manne ! and a wofulle manne ! 

And a heavye moane makes he ; 
" Mye childe ! mye childe ! mine onlye childe ! 

Would God I had dyedde for thee !" 

An agedde manne, those white haires telle, 

And that bendedde backe and knee ; 
Yette a stalwart Knighte, at Tewkesburye fighte, 

Was Sir Archibalde Winstanlye ! 

'Tis a movinge thinge to see the teares 

Wrunge oute frae an agedde eye, 
Seldome and slowe, like the scantye droppes 

Of a fountaine that's neere a drye. 



44 THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. 



^Tis a sorrye sighte to see graye haires 
Brochl downe to the grave with sorrowe ! 

Youth lukes thro' the cloude of the presente daye 
For a goldenne gleame to-morrowe. 

Bot the palsyede hedde, and the feeble knees, 

Berefte of earthlye staye ! 

God help thee novve, olde Winstanlye ! 

Gude Christians for thee praye ! — 

Bot manye a voice in that burialle traine 

Breathes gloomilye aparte, 
" Thou hadst not been childelesse nowe, olde manne, 

Bot for thine owne harde hearte !" 

Ana manye a mayde, who strewethe floweres 

Afore the Ladye's biere, 
Weepes oute, " Thou hadst not dyede, sweete Maude, 

If Al Wynne had beene heere !" 



What solemne chaunte ascendeth slowe ? 

What voices peale the straine ? 
The Monkes of St. Switholm's Abbaye neare 

Have mette the funeralle traine. 

They hold their landes, full manye a roode, 
From the Knightes of Raeburne Towerre ; 

And everre when Dethe doth claime his preye 
From within that lordlye bowerre. 

Then come the holye Fatheris forthe, 
The shrowdedde corse to meete, 



THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. 45 



And see it laide in hallowde grave, 
With requiem sadde and svveete. 

And nowe they turne, and leade the waye 

To that laste home so nigh, 
Where all the race of Winstanlye 

In dust and darknesse lye. 

The holye altarre blazethe brighte 

With waxenne taperres high ; 
Elsewhere, in dimme and doubtfulle lycht 

Dothe alle the chape^lle lye. 

Huge, undefinedde shadowes falle 
From pillare and from tombe ; 

And manye a grimme olde monumente 
Lookes ghastelye through the gloome. 

And manye a rustye shirt of maile 
The eye maye scantlye trace ; 

And crestedde helmette, blacke and barred, 
That grinnes with sterne grimace. 

Bannerre and scutcheon from the walles 

Wave in the cald nighte aire ; 
Gleames out their gorgeous heraldrye 

In the ent'ringe torches' glare. 

For nowe the mourninge companye, 

Beneathe that archedde doore, 

Beare in the lovely e, lifelesse claye, 

Shall passe thereoute no more. 
21* 



46 THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. 

And up the soundinge aisle ye stille 
Their solemne chaunte may heare ; 

Tille 'neath that blazonned catafalque 
They gentlye reste the biere : 

Then ceasethe everye sounde of life ; 

So deepe that awfulle hushe, 
Ye heare from yon freshe opennedde vaulte 

The hollowe deathe-winde rushe. 

Backe from the biere the mournerres alle 

Retire a little space ; 
Alle bot that olde bereavedde manne, 

Who takethe there his place 

Beside the dedde : but none may see 

The workinges of his mynde ; 
So lowe upon that sunkenne breste 

Is that graye hedde declin'de. 



The masse is saide, they raise the dedde, 

The palle is flunge aside ; 
And soone that coffinn'd lovelyenesse 

The darksome pit shalle hide. 

It gapethe close at hande. — Deep downe 

Ye maye the coffinnes see 
(By the lampe's dull glare, freshe kindledde there) 

Of many a Winstanlye. 

And the gildedde nails on one looke brighte, 
And the velvette of cramoisie ; 



THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. 47 

She hathe not laine there a calendcrre yeere, 
The laste Dame Winstanlye. 

" There's roome for thee heere, oh daughter deere !" 

Methinkes I heare her saye ; — 
" There's roome for thee, Maude Winstanlye ; 

Come downe — make no delaye !" 

And, from the vaulte, two grimlye armes 

Upraised, demaunde the dedde ! . . . . 
Hark ! hark ! 'tis the tramp of a rushinge steede ! 

'Tis the clanks of an armedde tredde ! 



There's an armedde hedde at the chapelle doore ; 

And in armoure all bedighte 
In coal-black Steele, from hedde to heele, 

In steppes an armedde Knighte ! 

And uppe the aisle, with heavye tredde. 

Alone advauncethe he ; 
To barre his waye, dothe none essays 

Of the fun'ralle companye. 

And never a voice amongste them all 

Dothe aske who he mote be ; 
Nor why his armedde steppe disturbes 

That sadde solemnitye. 



Yette manye an eye, with fixedde stare, 
Dothe sternelye on him frown ; 

Bot none may trace the straungcr's f; 
He weares his vizorre downe. 



48 THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. 

He speakes no worde, but waves his hande, 
And straighte theye alle obeye ; 

And ev'rye soule that standethe there, 
Falles backe to make him v/aye. 

He passethe on — no hande dothe stirre ; 

His steppe the onlye sounde ; 
He passethe on, and signes them sette 

The coffinne on the grounde. 

A momente gazinge down th'ereonne, 
With foldedde armes dothe staye ; 

Then stoopinge, with one mightye wrench 
He teares the lidde awaye. 

Then risethe a confusedde sounde, 
And some half forwarde starte, 

And murmurre " sacriledge !" And some 
Beare hastilye aparte. 

The agedde Knighte, at that straunge sighte 
Whose consciousnesse hathe fledde — 

Bot signe, nor sounde disturbethe him 
Who gazethe on the dedde. 

And seemethe sune, as that faire face 

Dothe alle exposedde lye. 
As if its holye calme o'erspredde 
- The frowninge faces bye. 

And nowe beside the Virginne corse 
Downe kneeles the straunger Knighte, 

And backe his vizorrede helnie he throwes, 
Bot not in openne sight ; 



1 



THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. 49 



For to the pale, colde clammye face, 

His owne he stoopethe lowe, 
And kissethe firste the bludelesse cheeke, 

And then the marble browe. 

Then, to the dedde lippes gluede, so long 

The livinge lippes do staye, 
As if in that sad silente kisse 

The soule had paste awaye. 

Bot suddenne, from that mortal trance, 

As with a desp'rate straine, 
Up ! up ! he springes — his armoure ringes — 

His vizorre's downe againe. 

With many a flouerre, her weepinge maydes 
The Ladye's shroude have dressed ; 

And one white rose is in the faulde 
That veiles her whiterre breste. 

One gowden ringlette on her browe 
(Escappede forthe) dothe straye ; 

So on a wreathe of driftedde snowe 
The wintrye sunbeames playe. 

The mailedde hande hath ta'en the rose 

From oife that breste so fayre ; 
The faulchion's edge, from that pale hedde, 

Hath shorne the gowden haire. 

One heavye sighe ! — the firste and last — 
One deepe and stifledde groane ! 

A few longe strides, a clange of hoofes, 
And the armedde straunger's gone ! 



fiO SONNET.— 1818- 



SONNET.-1818 



Dark rolling clouds, in wild confusion driven, 
Obscure the full-orb'd moon. In all the heaven 
One only star (th' appointed evening light) 
Beams mildly forth ; like friendly Pharos bright, 
That, kindled on some towering summit, streams 
Wide o'er the ocean-paths. Its far-off beams 
First seen by him who on the silent deck 
Paces his lonely watch — a glimmering speck, 
Doubtful in distance. But his homeward eye 
Is keen the faithful beacon to descry, 
And mine, like his, impatient to explore 
(With friends and kindred throng'd) the distant sliore 
Is fix'd on that lone star, whose lovely ray 
Points to a happier home, the heavenward way. 



ABJURATION. 



ABJURATION 



There was a time — sweet time of youthful folly ! 

Fantastic woes I courted, feign'd distress, 
Wooing the veiled phantom Melancholy 

With passion, born,Jike Love, "in idleness." 

And like a lover — like a jealous lover — 

I hid mine idol with a miser's art, 
Lest vulgar eyes her sweetness should discover, 

Close in the inmost chambers of mine heart — 

And then I sought her — oft in secret sought her, 
From merry mates withdrawn and mirthful play, 

To wear away, by some deep stilly water 

In greenwood haunt, the livelong summer day — 

Watching the flitting clouds, the fading flowers, 
The flying rack athwart the waving grass ; 

And murmuring oft — "Alack ! this life of ours ! — 
Such are its joys — so swiftly doth it pass '" 

And then mine idle tears (ah, silly maiden !) 
Bedropt the liquid grass like summer rain. 

And sighs, as from a bosom sorrow-laden, 

Heaved the light heart that knew no real pain. 



59 ABJURATION. 



And then I loved to haunt lone burial-places, 

To pace the churchyard earth with noiseless tread, 

To pore in new-made graves for ghastly traces — 
Brown crumbling bones of the forgotten dead. 

To think of passing bells, of death and dying — 
'Twere good, methought, in early youth to die. 

So loved ! lamented ! — in such sweet sleep lying, 
The white shroud all with flowers and rosemary 

Stuck o'er by loving hands ! — But then, 'twould grieve me 
Too sore, forsooth ! the scene my fancy drew — 

I could not bear the thought to die and leave ye, 
And I have lived, dear friends ! to weep for you. 

And I have lived to prove what " fading flowers" 
Are life's best joys, and all we love and prize — 

What chilling rains succeed the summer showers ! 
What bitter drops wrung slow from elder eyes ! 

And I have lived to look on " death and dying," 
To count the sinking pulse — the short'ning breath — 

To watch the last faint life-streak flying — flying — 
To stoop — to start ! to be alone with death ! 

And I have lived to feign the smile of gladness, 
When all within was cheerless, dark, and cold — 

When all earth's joys seem'd mockery and madness, 
And life more tedious than " a tale twice told." 



And now — and now — pale, pining Melancholy 
No longer veil'd for me your haggard brow 

In pensive sweetness, such as youthful folly 
Fondly conceited; I abjure ye now ! — 



ABJURATION. 53 



Away ! avaunt ! — No longer now I call ye, 
" Divinest Melancholy ! mild, meek maid !" 

No longer may your siren spells enthrall me, 
A willing captive in your baleful shade. 

" Give me the voice of mirth, the sound of laughter, 
The sparkling glance of pleasure's roving eye ! — 

The past is past — avaunt, thou dark hereafter ! — 
Come, eat and drink — to-morrow we must die !" 

So in his desperate mood the fool hath spoken — 

The fool, whose heart hath said " There is no God.'' 

But for the stricken soul — the spirit broken — 
There's balm in Gilead still : The very rod, 

If we but kiss it as the stroke descendeth, 
Distilleth oil t' allay the inflicted smart. 

And " Peace that passeth understanding" blendeth 
With the deep sighing of the contrite heart. 

Mine be that holy, humble tribulation — 

No longer " feign'd distress, fantastic woe ;" 

I know my griefs — but then my consolation, 
My trust, and my immortal hopes I know. 
22 



54 SONNET.— 1821. 



S0NNET.-1821. 



Stay, flaming chariot ! fiery coursers, stay, 
Soft gleams of setting sunshine, that doth cast 
A lustrous line along the dark wide waste ! 

Oh ! wherefore must ye fade so swift away ? 

Wherefore, oh ! wherefore, at the close of day 
Shine out so glorious, when Night's sable pall 
Will drop around so soon, and cover all ? 

Beautiful beam ! bright trav'Uer ! stay, oh, stay ! 

And let my spirit on your parting ray 

Glide from this world of error, doubt, distress— 
(Oh ! I am weary of its emptiness) — 

To happier worlds, where there is peace for aye, 

Peace ! less abiding here, than Noah's dove — 

When we shall never part from those we love ! 



BEAUTY. 55 



BEAUTY. 



" Quel dommage que tout cela pourrira ?" 
" Oui, Monsieur ! mais cela n'est pas pourri." 



John Bull and Lord Byroii are agreed on one point. Both 
assert « Cant" to be the prevailing moral feature of the age we 
live in. Innumerable scribblers have caught up the same note, 
and spun it out in endless variation, and I, among the small fry 
of literature, am fain to join in the chorus. Of all cants, then, 
one of the most sickening to my taste is that of some parents who 
pretend (I give them little credit for sincerity) to deprecate for 
their female offspring that precious gift, as it really is, or, as they 
are pleased to term it, " that dangerous distinction,"— personal 
beauty. They affect, forsooth, to thank Providence that their 
daughters are " no beauties," or to sigh and lament over their 
fatal attractions ; and then they run out into a long string of trite 
axioms, and stale commonplaces, about the snares and vanities of 
this wicked world, as if none but beauties were exposed to the as- 
saults of the Tempter. Now, I am firmly of opinion— nay, every- 
day experience proves it is so— that ugly women, called plain by 
courtesy, are just as liable to slip and stumble in those treacher- 
ous pitfalls, as others of their sex distinguished by personal attrac- 
tiveness ; and, on a fair average, that pretty women are the hap- 
piest, as well as the most agreeable, of the species. 

Let us take a fair sample of this genera— not a yerfect sped- 



56 BEAUTY. 



men ; the botanist may select such a one for his herbal, but it 
v/ould not so well answer our purpose in exemplifying human va- 
rieties. Let us suppose a child endowed with moderate abilities, 
an amiable disposition, and a decent share of beauty, and other 
children of the same family gifted in an equal proportion with 
mental qualifications, but wholly destitute of external charms ; 
will not the fair attractive child be the most favoured, the best be- 
loved, generally speaking, even of those parents who endeavour 
to be, and honestly believe that they are, most conscientiously 
impartial ? The same anxious care may, it is true, be equally 
bestowed upon all — the same tender and endearing epithets be 
applied to all ; but the eye will linger longest on the sweet coun- 
tenance of the lovely little one, the parental kiss will dwell more 
fondly on its rosy lip, and the voice, in speaking to it, will be in- 
voluntarily modulated to softer and more tender tones. I am not 
arguing that this preference, however involuntary it may be, is 
even then wholly defensible, or that, if knowingly, weakly yielded 
to, it is not in the highest degree cruel and inexcusable. I only 
assert that it is in human nature ; and, waving that side of the 
question, which, if analysed, would involve a long moral discus- 
sion not necessarily connected with the present subject, I would 
simply observe, that if this unconscious, irresistible preference 
frequently influences even the fondest parents, how far more un- 
restrainedly does it manifest itself in the circle of friends, guests, 
relations, and casual visiters ! How many indulgences and grat- 
ifications are obtained for the irresistible pleader ! How many 
petitions granted for the remuneration of a kiss ! How tenderly 
are the tears of contrition wiped away from eyes that look so 
beautifully remorseful ! And all this, I firmly believe, if re- 
strained by right feeling and firm principle from reaching a blam- 
able excess, is productive of good results only in the young mind, 
and that children thus happily constituted, thrive best (even in a 
moral sense) in that atmosphere of tender indulgence, and become 



BEAUTY. 57 



eventually more amiable and equable, least selfish and exacting, 
in all the various circumstances and relations of life. 

The reason of this I take to be, that they feel the most perfect 
confidence in the good-will and affections of their fellow-creatures ; 
and how many of the best affections of our nature spring up and 
flourish under the kindly influence of that most Christian feeling ! 
The fair engaging girl expands into womanhood, in the warm 
sunshine of affectionate encouragement, and all the delicate and 
grateful feelings of her heart are drawn out to bud and blossom 
in that congenial clime — every individual of her family and 
friends fondly or courteously contributing to her happiness or 
pleasure — Will not the desire to repay kindness with kindness, 
love with love, blessing with blessing, be the responsive impulse 
of her young heart ? She finds, by everyday experience, that the 
tenderest approbation, the warmest encomiums, the fondest caress- 
es, reward her endeavours after the attainment of useful infor- 
mation and elegant accomplishment; and that blessings, more 
expressively silent (the eloquent blessings of the eye), beam un- 
utterable things on her performance of higher duties. What a 
powerful stimulus to persevere in the path of well-doing ! to strive 
to be all she is thought capable of being ! Her natural failings 
and youthful errors are most mildly and tenderly rebuked, her 
motives most charitably interpreted. What incentives to conquer 
those failings, to avoid those errors ; to justify indulgence so ten- 
der, to realize hopes so sanguine ! Happiness is far less selfish 
than sorrow. Its natural tendency (that is, of happiness derived 
from pure and holy sources — the only true happiness, in short) is 
to communicate, to infuse itself, as it were, into every surround- 
ing object ; and of a surety nothing inspires us with such good-will 
and charity towards our fellow-creatures, as the pleasant con- 
sciousness that they are benevolently disposed towards us. If all 
the discourteous, uncharitable, ill-natured things that are said and 
done, were traced back to their real source, it would be found 

22* 



58 BEAUTY. 



that at least every other one resulted, not from resentment for the 
infliction of serious injury, but from some wounded feeling — some 
smarting sense of neglect, unkindness, disrespect — or, it may be, 
of conscious insignificance and deficiency in the power of pleas- 
ing ; a consciousness, by the way, widely differing from Christian 
humility, and operating far otherwise (generally speaking) on the 
neart and temper. 

Allowing these to be fancied, or at least fancifully exaggerated 
injuries, their influence on the character is not therefore less per- 
nicious ; and the question is. Would these baleful, corroding, 
crushing thoughts, have sprung up in the cheering sunshine of 
favour and indulgence ? Have they not been generated and fos- 
tered in a cold ungenial shade, where " flowers that love the light" 
could never blossom ? 

But " Vanity ! vanity !" saith the preacher. — What sevenfold 
shield can fence the heart of woman against vanity and its sa- 
tanic legion ? The only shield, I reply, of proof to repel from 
any human heart the perpetual, insidious, and ever-varying as- 
saults of the tempter — sound moral principles founded on religious 
knowledge, and a firm and humble faith in the truths of revela- 
tion. When these have not been early and sedulously inculcated, 
the Beauty is exposed indeed to imminent and peculiar dangers. 

But is the ugly woman, on her part, more secure from those 
temptations to which she also is peculiarly exposed ? Is vanity 
solely confined to the consciousness of personal attractions ? Is 
there no such thing as conceit of sense, of talent, of taste, of clev- 
erness (that is the fashionable word), of goodness, nay, even of 
humility ? There is also (if I may so express myself) conceit 
active, and conceit passive. That which plumes itself on being 
superior on such and such points, is to my taste less odious than 
the Pharisaical cant — " Well, thank God ! I am not so and so." 

Now, verily, I am inclined to believe, that of all modifications 
of this infirmity — this vice^ if you will have it so — that is most 



BEAUTY. 53 



harmless which plumes itself on outward and visible perfections, 
(I speak with exclusive reference to female beauties ;) and, in 
point of fact, have we not often occasion to remark, that a pretty, 
vain, giddy girl, one of the most apparently inconsiderate char- 
acter, will settle down for life, with a companion who deserves 
and possesses her respect and affection, into a domestic, prudent 
wife, a careful and tender mother, an exemplary mistress of a 
family ; while some grave, demure-looking miss, guarded at all 
points in the armour of ugliness, bristling all over with decorum, 
and pinched into the very pattern of primness and propriety, doth 
as often (if occasion offer) launch out into such extravagancies 
and indiscretions, as defy all calculation on probability and 
liability, and utterly confound the wise theories of all declaimers 
against the dangerous endowment of Beauty. 

But, to sum up all, are there in the class of Beauties fewer 
good wives, good mothers, good women, and good Christians, than 
amongst those of the sex to whom nature has been sparing of out-, 
ward adornments ? An impartial observer will acknowledge, that 
such characters are found in pretty equal proportions amongst the 
lovely and unlovely. But, reverting from that higher ground of 
observation to minor considerations, I will venture to assert that 
there is less vanity, or perhaps, more correctly speaking, less so- 
licitude about personal appearance, in pretty than in plain women. 
The cause is obvious — one is perpetually striving to make her- 
self what nature has made the other. Its frequent result is more 
perplexing. That exuberant self-complacency with which an 
ugly woman, in the full pomp and panoply of dress and decora- 
tion, seems as it were to inflate and expand her whole person ; 
and if some solitary charm of form or feature had been grudgingly 
bestowed upon her, what sedulous anxiety to exhibit it to the best 
advantage ! How the malady concentrates itself, in a manner, in 
that particular part ! — betrays itself by an unnatural and perpet- 
ual distension of the mouth, if a set of white and even teeth is the 



60 BEAUTY. 



seat of the disorder ; is distinguished by a delicate curve of the 
fingers, or a rennarkable action of the hand, if that happens to be 
the part affected ; or by a frequent protrusion of the foot, should 
the disease have possessed itself of the lower extremities. 

Good Heaven ! in what thing, in what place, under what cir- 
cumstances, will not vanity take root and thrive ? Stick it, like 
houseleek, on a bare wall, its fibres will insinuate themselves into 
the crevices, and the plant will prosper somehoio. Strew it, like 
mustard and cress, over a few woollen threads, in an earthen plat- 
ter, and you may pick salad to-morrow. Hang it up, like the air 
plant, between heaven and earth by a single thread, and, like the 
air plant, it will bud and blossom without other than ethereal nu- 
triment. They are inexperienced naturalists who affirm that it 
flourishes only, or peculiarly, in soil or climate of such and such 
nature and temperature. 

But to all who persist in the belief that Beauty is the forcing- 
bed of this idle flaunting weed — to all parents who are really 
sincere in deprecating for their female offspring, what they are 
pleased to term so fatal an endowment — I would compassionately 
suggest one simple expedient, calculated to strike at the very root 
of the evil. Let the pride of civilisation condescend for once to 
adopt the practice of those unsophisticated savages, who (for very 
opposite purposes, indeed) flatten the noses, depress the skulls, and 
slit the lips and ears of their new-born females. The most obsti- 
nate charms — the most inveterate beauty — must infallibly yield to 
this early discipline ; to which, as a measure of further security, 
may be added the Chinese precaution of compressing the feet, and 
a general tattooing of the whole person, so that no separate part or 
portion thereof may become a lurking stronghold for that subtle 
demon, who can entrench himself in the hem of an ear, or " take 
his stand" on the tip of a little finger. 

Results incalculably important, powerfully influential on the 
whole system of society, might arise from a skilful and determined 



BEAUTY. 6. 



practice of these precautionary measures. We learn from natu- 
ral history, and daily observation confirms it to us, that human 
science and ingenuity, sometimes dexterously availing themselves 
of chance occasions, often obtain signal triumphs over the stubborn 
laws of nature. In America (I think) a breed of sheep has been 
propagated (springing, in the first instance, from an accidental 
variety) so crippled in the hind-legs, that the slightest fence im- 
aginable — a mere ridge of turf — is sufficient to restrain the ani- 
mals within the boundaries of their rich pastures, where they 
crawl about like monstrous grubs, the qualities of the wool and 
mutton being noways deteriorated by their disproportionate form- 
ation. Why should not similar modes of treatment (if brought to 
bear on the human species) be rewarded by similar success ? 
The Chinese, in particular, (were it possible that the light of sci- 
ence should penetrate those dark mists of ignorance and obstinacy 
which envelope "the celestial empire,") instead of torturing, with 
barbarous pressure, the tender feet of their infant daughters, 
might happily obtain and cultivate a breed fofemales, as incapa- 
ble of active locomotion as the woolly crawlers above mentioned; 
or, if that degree of perambulatory power should be deemed in- 
compatible with the moral security of the female flock, doubtless 
the triumph of experimental philosophy might be carried still fur- 
ther, in the ultimate perfecting of a species wholly divested of 
legs and feet ; very useless appendages, it must be owned, when 
the possessors are predestined to squat on cushions and carpets 
throughout the whole term of their mortal existence. In Barbary 
and Turkey, also, and amongst all those nations where female 
beauty is secluded from the public eye, and valued by the hun- 
dred-weight, the attainment of so valuable and curious a variety 
would be an object of infinite importance. But these are desul- 
tory considerations, thrown out at random, from whence the patri- 
otic mind reverts, with concentrated zeal, to the dearer interests 
of its native land. To my countrymen, therefore — But whither 



62 BEAUTY. 



tends my speculative genius ? — what would be the probable result 
of those measures I have ventured to suggest, in my compassion- 
ate tenderness for parental society ? If adopted by a few leaders 
of rank and fashion, the universal rage for novelty and imitation 
would soon make the practice general; and then, indeed, not 
alone a separate caste might be attained, sanctified in the beauty 
of ugliness, but a great and decided conquest over Beauty itself 
might be confidently anticipated. But, with its utter extinction in 
the land, might not our present conceptions of its component parts 
and general combinations, fade away to dim recollections ? Those 
also, in process of time, could hardly fail to be wholly obliterated ; 
and in their stead would grow up a new standard of perfection, 
not less the object of dangerous and profane worship for being 
the very reverse of its present idol. With the customs of savage 
nations, we may import their tastes also ; and thenceforward, a 
celebrated beauty of the British court may be constituted such, by 
perfections similar to those that qualify a Hottentot Venus, an 
Esquimaux Petite Maitresse, or a reigning toast of the Sandwich 
Islands ; and the first glance of a flat nose, thick lips, flapping 
ears, and depressed pericranium, in his new-born babe, may strike 
into the heart of an anxious parent the same pious horror with 
which he now contemplates the Grecian outline and delicate pro- 
portions of the infant Beauty, who smiles in his face with such 
innocent and pitiable unconsciousness of the fatal charms with 
which nature has endowed her. 



MY GARDEN. 



MY GARDEN. 



I LOVE my Garden ! — dearly love 

That little spot of ground ! — 
There's not, methinks — (though I may err 
In partial pride) — a pleasanter, 

In all the country round ! 

The smooth green turf winds gently there, 

With no ungraceful bend, 
Round many a bed and many a border, 
Where, gaily group'd in sweet disorder, 

Young Flora's darlings blend. 

Spring ! Summer ! Autumn ! — Of all three, 

Whose reign is loveliest there ? 
Oh ! is not she who paints the ground, 
When its frost fetters are unbound, 
The fairest of the fair ? 

I gaze upon her violet beds, 

Laburnums, golden tress'd ; 
Her flower-spiked almonds — Breathe perfume, 
From lilac and seringa bloom, 

And cry, "I love Spring best!" 



MY GARDEN. 



But Summer comes, with all her pomp 

Of fragrance, beauty, bliss ! — 
And from amidst her bowers of roses, 
I sigh, as purple evening closes, 
" What season equals this ?" 

That pageant passeth by. Comes next 
Brown Autumn in her turn ; — 

Oh ! not unwelcome cometh she ; 

The parched earth luxuriously 
Drinks from her dewy urn. 

And she hath flowers, and fragrance loo, 

Peculiarly her own ; 
Asters of ev'ry hue — perfume, 
Spiced rich with clematis and broom, 

And mignonette late blown. 

Then if some lingering rose I spy 

Reclining languidly. 
Or the bright laurel's glossy green, — 
Dear Autumn ! my whole heart, I ween, 

Leaps up for love of thee ! 

. Oh, yes ! — I love my garden well. 
And find employment there ; — 
Employment sweet ; for many an liour. 
In tending every shrub and flower 
With still unwearied care. 

I prop the weakly, — prune the rude, — 
Scatter the various seeds, — 



MY GARDEN. 65 



Clear out intruders, — yet of those 
Oft sparing, what the florist knows 
To be but gaudy weeds. 

But when my task — my pleasant task !^ 

Is ended for the day — 
Sprinkled o'er every sun-bow 'd flower 
The artificial evening shower, 

Then oftentimes I stray — 

(Inherent is the love of change 

In human hearts) — far, far 
Beyond the garden-gate ; — the bound 
That clips my little Eden round. 

Chance for my leading star ; 

Through hollow lanes or coppice paths, 

By hill or hawthorn fence, 
Oe'r thymy commons, clover fields, 
Where every step I take reveals 

Some charm of sight or sense. 

The winding path brings suddenly 

A rustic bridge in sight ; 
Beneath it, gushing brightly out, 
The rivulet, where speckled trout 

Leap in the circling light. 

Pale water-lilies float thereon. 
The Naiads' loveliest wreath ! 

The adders' tongues dip down to drink ; 

The flag peers high above the brink, 
From her long slender sheath. 
23 



66 TMY GARDEN 



There, on the greensward, an old oak 

Stands singly. One, I trow, 
Whose mighty shadow spread as wide, 
When they were in their prime, who died 

An hundred years ago. 

A single ewe, with her twin lambs, 

Stands the grey trunk beside ; 
Others lie clustering in the shade. 
Or, down the windings of the glade. 
Are scattered far and wide. 

Two mossy thorns, o'er yonder stile 

A bowery archway rise; — 
Oh, what a flood of fragrance thence 
Breathes out ! — Behind that hazel fence 

A flowering bean-field lies. 

The shadowy path winds gently on 

That hazel fence beneath ; 
The wild-rose, and the woodbine there 
Shoot up, festooning high in air 

Their oft-entangled wreath. 

The path winds on — on either side 

Wall'd in by hedges high ; 
Their boughs so thickly arching over, 
That scarce one speck you can discover— 

One speck of the blue sky ! 

A lovely gloom ! It pleaseth me 
And lonely Philomel. 



MY GARDEN. 



Hark ! the enchantress sings ! — that strain 



Dies with a tremulous fall ! — again — 
Ohj what a gushing swell ! 

Darker and darker still the road, 
Scarce lit by twilight glances ; — 

Darker and darker still But, see ! 

Yonder, on that young aspen-tree, 
A darting sunbeam dances. 

Another gems the bank below 

With em'ralds ! Into one 
They blend — unite one em'rald sea ! 

And last, in all his majesty, 
Breaks through the setting sun ! 

And I am breathless, motionless, 

Mute with delight and love ! 
My very being seems to blend 
With all around me — to ascend 

To the great Source above. 

I feel I am a spark struck out 

From an eternal flame ; 
A part of the stupendous whole. 
His work, who breathed a deathless soul 

Into this mortal frame. 

And they shall perish — all these things — 

Darkness shall quench this ball : 
Death-throes this solid earth shall rive, 
Yet I — frail thing of dust ! — survive 
The final wreck of all. 



f)« MY GARDEN. 



" Wake up my glory! Lute and harp !" 

Be vocal ev'ry chord ; 
Lo ! all His works in concert sing, 
" Praise, praise to the Eternal King," 

The Universal Lord ! 

Oh, powerless will ! oh, languid voice ! 

Weak words ! imperfect lays ! 
Yet, could his works alone inspire 
The feelings that attune my lyre 

To these faint notes of praise. 

Not to the charms of tasteful art 

That I am cold or dull ; 
I gaze on all the graceful scene, 
The clust'ring flowers — the velvet green, 

And cry, — " How beautiful !" 

But when to Nature's book I turn, 

The page she spreads abroad ; 
Tears only to mine eyes that steal, 
Bear witness that I see and feel 
The mighty hand of God ! 



AUTUMN FLOWERS. 69 



AUTUMN FLOWERS. 



Those few pale Autumn flowers ! 

How beautiful they are ! 
Than all that went before, 
Than all the Summer store, 

How lovelier far ! 

And why ? — They are the tast — 
The last ! — tne last I — tiie last ! — 

O, by that little word, 

How many thoughts are stirr'd ! 
That sister of the past ! 

Pale flowers ! — pale perishing flowers ! 

Ye're types of precious things ; 
Types of those bitter moments 
That flit, like life's enjoyments. 

On rapid, rapid wings. 

Last hours with parting dear ones 
(That time the fastest spends), 

Last tears, in silence shed, 

Last words, half-uttered, 
Last looks of dying friends ! 
23* 



AUTUMN FLOWERS. 



Who but would fain compress 

A life into a day ; 
The last day spent with one, 
Who, e'er the morrow's sun, 

Must leave us, and for aye ? 

O, precious, precious moments ! 

Pale flowers ! ye're types of those- 
The saddest ! sweetest ! dearest ! 
Because, like tTiose, the nearest 

Is an eternal close. 

Pale flowers ! Pale perishing flowers I 

I woo your gentle breath ; 
I leave the summer rose 
For younger, blither brows, 

Tell me of chang^e and death ! 



SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY, ETC. 



SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY IS THE EVIL 
THEREOF." 



Oh ! by that gracious rule 

Were we but wise to steer 
On the wide sea of Thought, 
What moments, trouble-fraught, 
Were spared us here ! 

But we (perverse and blind) 
As covetous of pain, 

Not only seek for more 

Yet hidden, but live o'er 
The past again. 

This life is called brief — 

Man on the earth but crawls 
His threescore years and ten — 
At best fourscore — and then 

The ripe fruit falls. 

Y''et, betwixt birth and death. 

Were but the life of man 
By his thoughts measured, 
To what an age would spread 
That little span ! 



SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY 



There are, who're born and die, 

Eat, sleep, walk, rest between- 

Talk — act by clockwork too, 

So pass, in order due, 
Over the scene. 

With whom the past is past, 

The future, nothing yet ; 
And so, from day to day 
They breathe, till call'd to pay 
The last great debt. 

Their life, in truth, is brief; 

A speck — a point of time, 
Whether in good old age 
Endeth their pilgrimage, 

Or in its prime. 

But other some there are 

(I call them not more wise), 
In whom the restless mind 
Still lingereth behind. 

Or forward flies. 

With these, things pass away ; 

But past things are not dead ; 
In the heart's treasury. 
Deep-hidden, dead they lie, 

Unwithered. 

And there the soul retires, 

From the dull things that are, 



IS THE EVIL THEREOF. 



To mingle, oft and long, 
With the tinne-hallow'd throng 
Of those that were. 

Then into life start out 

The scenes long vanished ; 
Then we behold again 
The forms that have long lain 

Among the dead. 

We seek their grasp of love, 

We meet their beaming eye ; 

We speak — the vision's flown, 

Dissolving with its own 
Intensity. 

Years rapidly shift on, 

(Like clouds athwart the sky), 
And, lo ! sad watch we keep, 
When, in perturbed sleep. 

The sick doth lie. 

We gaze on some pale face. 

Shown by the dim watch-light ; 
Shuddering we gaze, and pray. 
And weep — and wish away 

The long, long night. 

And yet minutest things, 

That mark time's tedious tread, 
Are on the feverish brain, 
With self-protracting pain, 

Deep minuted. 



74 SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY 

The drops, with trembling hand, 

(Love steadied,) pour'd out ;— 

The draught replenished, — 

The label oft re-read 

With nervous doubt. 

The watch, that ticks so Loud ; 

The winding it, for one 
Whose hand lies powerless ; — 
And then, the fearful guess, — 

" Ere this hath run . . . ." 

The shutter, half unclosed 

As the night wears away ; 
Ere the last stars are set — 
Pale stars ! — that linger yet, 
Till perfect day. 

The morn, so oft invoked. 

That bringeth no relief: 

From which, with sickening sight, 

We turn, as if its light 

But mock'd our grief. 

Oh never, after-dawn, 

For us the east shall streak ; 
But we shall see agen, 
With the same thoughts as then, 

That pale daybreak ! 

The desolate awakening, 

When first we feel alone ? 



IS THE EVIL THEREOF. 75 

" Dread memories" are these ! — ■ 
Yet who, for heartless ease, 

Would exchange one ? 

These are the soul's hid wealth — 

Relics embalm'd with tears. 
Or, if her curious eye 
Searcheth futurity — 

The depth of years ; 

There (from the deck of youth) 

Enchanted land she sees ; 
Blue skies and sun-bright bowers 
Reflected, and tall towers, 

On glassy seas. 

But heavy clouds collect 

Over that bright-blue sky ; 
And rough winds rend the trees, 
And lash those glassy seas 

To billows high ! 

And then, the last thing seen 

By that dim light, may be 
(With helm and rudder lost) 
A lone wreck, tempest-tost. 

On the dark sea ! 

Thus doth the soul extend 

Her brief existence herei 
Thus multiplieth she, 
(Yea, to infinity !) 

The short career. 



SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY 



Presumptuous and unwise ! 

As if the present sum 
Were little of life's woe ! — 
Why seeketh she to know 

Ills yet to come ? 

Look up, look up, my soul, 

To loftier mysteries ; 
Trust in His word to thee, 
Who saith, " All tears shall be 

Wiped from all eyes." 

And when thou turnest back, 

(Oh ! what can chain thee here ?) 
Seek out the Isles of light, 
On " Mem'ry's waste" yet bright ; 

Or if too near 

To desolate plains they lie, 

All dark with guilt and tears ; 
Still, still retrace the past, 
Till thou alight at last 

On life's first years. 

There not a passing cloud 

Obscures the sunny scene ; 

No blight on the young tree ; 

No thought of what may he. 
Or what hath been. 

There all is Hope — not hope — 

For all things are possest. 



IS THE EVIL THEREOF. 77 

No — bliss without alloy, 
And innocence and joy, 

In the young breast. 

And all-confiding love, 

And holy ignorance, 
Thrice blessed veil ! Soon torn 
From eyes foredoom'd to mourn 

For man's offence. 

D, thither, weary spirit ! 

Flee from this world defiled 
How oft, heart-sick and sore, 
I've wish'd I were once more 

A little child ! 
24 



78 GRACIOUS RAIN. 



GRACIOUS RAIN. 



The east wind had whistled for many a day, 

Sere and wintry, o'er summer's domain ; 
And the sun, muffled up in a dull robe of gvejf 

Look'd sullenly down on the plain. 

The butterfly folded her wings as if dead, 

Or awaked ere the full destined time ; 
Ev'ry flower shrank inward, or hung down its head 

Like a young heart frost-nipp'd in its prime. 

I, too, shrank and shiver'd, and eyed the cold earth, 

The cold heaven with comfortless looks : 
And I listen'd in vain for the summer birds' mirth. 

And the music of rain-plenish'd brooks. 

But, lo! while I listen'd, down heavily dropt 

A few tears from a low-sailing cloud ; 
Large and few they descended — then thicken'd — then stopt. 

Then pour'd down abundant and loud. 

O, the rapture of beauty, of sweetness, of sound, 

That succeeded that soft gracious rain ! 
With laughter and singing the valleys rang round, 

And the little hills shouted again. 



GRACIOUS RAIN. 79 



The wind sank away like^a sleeping child's breath, 

The pavilion of clouds was upfurl'd ; 
And the sun, like a spirit triumphant o'er death, 

Smiled out on this beautiful world. 

On this " heauiiful world^''^ such a change had been wrought 
By these few blessed drops. Oh ! the same 

On some cold stony heart might be work'd too, methought, 
Sunk in guilt, but not senseless of shame. 

If a ^Q\v virtuous tears by the merciful shed, 
Touch'd its hardness, perhaps the good grain 

That was sown there and rooted, though long seeming dead, 
Might shoot up and flourish again. 

And the smile of the virtuous, like sunshine from heaven, 

Might chase the dark clouds of despair ; 
And remorse, when the rock's flinty surface was riven. 

Might gush out and soften all there. 

Oh ! to work such a change — By God's grace to recall 
A poor soul from the death-sleep ! To this ! 

To this joy that the angels partake, what were all 
That the worldly and sensual call bliss ? 



THE WELCOME HOME. 



THE WELCOME HOME-1820. 



Hark ! hark ! they're come ! — those merry bells, 
That peal their joyous welcome swells ; 
And many hearts are swelling high, 
With more than joy — with ecstacy ! 

And many an eye is straining now 
T'ward that good ship, that sails so slow ; 
And many a look toward the land 
They cast, upon that deck who stand. 

Flow, flow, ye tides ! — ye languid gales. 
Rise, rise, and fill their flagging sails ! — ■ 
Ye tedious moments, fly, begone, 
And speed the blissful meeting on. 

Impatient watchers ! happy ye. 
Whose hope shall soon be certainty ; 
Happy, thrice happy ! soon to strain 
Fond hearts to kindred hearts again ! 

Brothers and sisters — children — mother — 
All, all restored to one another ! 
All, all return'd ! — And are there none 
To me restored, return'd ? — Not one. 



THE WELCOME HOME. 81 



Far other meeting mine must be 
With friends long lost — Far other sea 
Than thou, oh restless ocean ! flows 
Betwixt us — One that never knows. 

Ebb-time or flood ; — a stagnant sea ; — 
Time's gulf- — its shore Eternity ! — 
No voyager from that shadowy bourne 
With chart or sounding may return. 

There, there they stand. — the loved ! — the lost ! 
They beckon from that awful coast ! — 
They cannot thence return to me, 
But I shall go to them. — I see 

E'en now, methinks, those forms so dear, 
Bend smiling to invite me there. — 
Oh, best beloved ! a little while. 
And I obey that beck'ning smile ! 

'Tis all my comfort now, to know. 
In God's good time it shall be so ; 
And yet, in that sweet hope's despite. 
Sad thoughts oppress my heart to-night. 

And doth the sight of others' gladness 
Oppress this selfish heart with sadness ? 
Now Heaven forbid ! — But tears will rise — 
Unbidden tears — into mine eyes. 

When busy thought contrasts with theirs 
My fate, my feelings — Four brief years 
Have wing'd their flight, since, where they stand, 
I stood, and watch'd that parting band, 
24* 



THE WELCOME HOME. 



{Then parting hence) — and one, methought, 
(Oh, human foresight ! set at nought 
By God's unfathom'd will !) was borne 
From England, never to return ! — 

With sadden'd heart, I turn'd to seek 
Mine own beloved home — to speak 
With her who shared it, of the fears 
She also shared in .... It appears 

But yesterday that thus we spoke ; 
And I can see the very look 
With which she said, " I do believe 
Mine eyes have ta'en their last long leave 

Of her who is gone hence to-day !" 
Five months succeeding slipp'd away ; 
And on the sixth, a deep-toned bell 
Swung slow, of recent death to tell ! 

It toU'd for her, with whom so late 
I reason'd of impending fate ; 
To me, those solemn words who spoke 
So late, with that remember'd look ! 

And now, from that same steeple, swells 
A joyous peal of many bells, 
Her welcome, whose approaching doom 
We blindly thought — a foreign tomb ^ 



TO A DYING INFANT. B3 



TO A DYING INFANT, 



Sleep, little Baby ! sleep ! 

Not in thy cradle bed, 
Not on thy mother's breast 
Henceforth shall be thy rest, 

But with the quiet dead. 

Yes, with the quiet dead, 

Baby ! thy rest shall be — 

Oh ! many a weary wight. 

Weary of life and light. 

Would fain lie down with thee ! 

Flee, little tender nursling ! 

Flee to thy grassy nest — 
There the first flowers shall blow. 
The first pure flake of snow 

Shall fall upon thy breast. 

Peace ! peace ! the little bosom 

Labours with shortening breath. 
Peace ! peace ! that tremulous sigh 
Speaks his departure nigh — 

Those are the damps of Death. 

I've seen thee in thy beauty, 

A thing all health and glee ; 



84 TO A DYING INFANT. 

But never then, wert thou 
So beautiful, as now. 

Baby ! thou seem'st to me. 

Thine upturn'd eyes glazed over 
Like harebells wet with dew — 

Already veil'd and hid 

By the convulsed lid, 

Their pupils darkly blue. 

Thy little mouth half open, 
The soft lip quivering, 
As if, like summer air. 
Ruffling the rose leaves, there 
Thy soul were fluttering. 

Mount up, immortal essence ! 

Young spirit ! hence — depart ^ 
And is tliis Death ? Dread thing ! 
If such thy visiting, 

How beautiful thou art ! 

Oh ! I could gaze for ever 

Upon that waxen face, 
So passionless ! so pure ! 
The little shrine was sure 

An angel's dwelling-place. 

Thou weepest, childless mother ! 

Ay, weep — 'twill ease thine heart ; 
He was thy first-born son — 
Thy first, thine only one ; 

'Tis hard from him to part. 



TO A DYING INFANT. 85 

'Tis hard to lay^thy darling 

Deep in the damp cold earth, 
His empty crib to see, 
His silent nursery, 

Late ringing with his mirth. 

To meet again in slumber 

His small mouth's rosy kiss. 
Then — waken'd with a start 
By thine own throbbing heart — 

His twining arms to miss. 

And then to Vie and weep, 

And think the livelong night 
(Feeding thine own distress 
With accurate greediness) 

Of every past delight. 

Of all his winning ways. 

His pretty, playful smiles, 
His joy at sight of thee, 
His tricks, his mimickry. 

And all his little wiles. 

Oh ! these are recollections 

Round mothers' hearts that cling ! 
That mingle with the tears 
And smiles of after years. 

With oft awakening. 

But thou wilt then, fond mother. 
In after years, look back 



86 TO A DYING INFANT. 

(Time brings such wondrous easing) 
With sadness not unpleasing, 
Even on this gloomy track. 

Thou'lt say, " My first-born blessing ' 
It almost broke my heart, 

When thou wert forced to go, 

And yet for thee, I know 
'Twas better to depart. 

" God took thee in his mercy, 
A lamb untask'd — untried — 

He fought the field for thee — 

He won the victory — 

And thou art sanctified. 

" I look around, and see 
The evil ways of men. 

And oh, beloved child ! 

I'm more than reconciled 
To thy departure then. 

" The little arms that clasp'd me, 
The innocent lips that prest. 
Would they have been as pure 
Till now, as when of yore 

I luU'd thee on my breast ? 

" Now, like a dewdrop shrined 
Within a crystal stone, 

Thou'rt safe in heaven, my dove ! 

Safe with the Source of love. 
The everlasting One ! 



TO A DYING INFANT. 87 

'•' And when the hour arrives, 

From flesh that sets me free, 
Thy spirit may await 
The first at heaven's gate, 

To meet and welcome me.'' 



88 THK NIGHT-SMELLING STOCK. 



THE NIGHT-SMELLING STOCK. 



Come, look at this Plant, with its narrow pale leaves, 

And its tall, slim, delicate stem, 
Thinly studded with flowers ! — Yes, with flowers ! — 

There they are ! 
Don't you see at each joint there's a little brown star ? 

But, in truth, there's no beauty in them. 

So you ask why I keep it ? the little mean thing ! 

Why I stick it up here, just in sight ; — 
'Tis a fancy of mine. — " A strange fancy !" you say ; 
" No accounting for tastes !" — In this instance you may, 

For the flower .... But I'll tell you to-night. 

Some six hours hence, when the Lady Moon 

Looks down on that bastion'd wall, 
"When the twinkling stars dance silently 
On the rippling surface of the sea. 

And the heavy night-dews fall ; 

Then meet me again in this casement niche. 
On the spot where we're standing now. — 
Nay, question not wherefore ? Perhaps, with me, 
To look out on the night, and the broad, bright sea, 
And to hear its majestic flow ! 



THE NIGHT-SMELLING STOCK. 89 



Well, we're met here again ; and the moonlight sleeps 

On the sea, and the bastion'd wall ; 
And the flowers there below — How the night-wind brings 
Their delicious breath on its dewy wings ! — 

" But there's one," say you, " sweeter than all !" 

" Which is it ? The myrtle, or jessamine, 

Or their sovereign lady the rose ? 
Or the heliotrope ? or the virgin's bower ? 
What ! neither ?" — Oh, no ; 'tis some other flower, 

Far sweeter than either of those. 

Far sweeter ! And where, think you, groweth the plant 

That exhaleth such perfume rare ? 
Look about, up and down — But take care ! or you'll break, 
With your elbow, that poor little thing that's so weak, 

.... "Why, 'tis that smells so sweet, I declare !" 

Ah ha ! is it that ? Have you found out now 
, Why I cherish that odd little fright ? 
" All is not gold that glitters," you know ; 
And it is not all worth makes the greatest show 
In the glare of the strongest light. 

There are human flowers full many, I trow, 
As unlovelv o«= that by your side, 
25 



90 



THE NIGHT-SMELLING STOCK. 



That a common observer passeth by 
With a scornful lip, and a careless eye, 
ii> ihe heyday of pleasure and pride. 

But move on. f those to some quiet spot, 

From the mia-uay sun's broad glare, 
Where domestic peace broods with dove-like wing ; 
And try if the homely, despised thing, 

May not yield sweet fragrance there. 

Or wait till the days of trial come— 

The dark days of trouble and wo ; 
When they shrink, and shut up, late so bright in the sun ;~ 
Then turn to the little despised one, 

And see if 'twill serve you so. 

And judge not again at a single glance. 

Nor pass sentence hastily : 
There are many good things in this world of ours— 
Many sweet things and rare I-weeds that prove precious flowers ! 

Little dreamt of by you or me. 



THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. 91 



THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. 



Epistolary as well as personal intercourse, is, according to 
the mode in which it is carried on, one of the pleasantest or most 
irksome things in the world. It is delightful to drop in on a friend 
without the solemn prelude of invitation and acceptance ; to join 
a social circle, where we may suffer our minds and hearts to re- 
lax and expand, in the happy consciousness of perfect security 
from invidious remark and carping criticism — where we may give 
the reins to the sportiveness of innocent fancy, or the enthusiasm 
of warm-hearted feeling — where we may talk sense or nonsense, 
(I pity people who cannot talk nonsense !) without fear of being 
looked into icicles, by the cold surprise of unimaginative people — 
living pieces of clockwork — who dare not themselves utter a word, 
or lift up a little finger, without first weighing the important point 
in the hair-balance of propriety and good-breeding. It is equally 
delightful to let the pen talk freely and unpremeditatedly, to one; 
by whom we are sure of being understood ; but a formal letter, 
like a ceremonious morning visit, is tedious alike to the writer 
and receiver, for the most part made up of unmeaning phrases, 
trite observations, complimentary flourishes, and protestations of 
respect and attachment, so far not deceitful, that they never de- 
ceive any body. Oh ! the misery of having to compose a set, 
proper, well-worded, correctly pointed, polite, elegant epistle — 
one that must have a beginning, a middle, and an end, as method- 
ically arranged and proportioned as the several parts of a sermon 
under three heads, or the three gradations of shade in a school- 



92 THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING 

girl's first landscape. For my part, I would rather be set to beatt 
hemp, or weed in a turnip-field, than to write such a letter exactly 
every month or every fortnight, at the precise point of time from i 
the date of our correspondent's last communication, that he or she i 
set pen to paper after the receipt of ours, as if one's thoughts bub- ■ 
bled up to the well-head periodically, a pint at a time, to be bot- 
tled off for immediate use. Thought ! What has thought to do in 
such a correspondence ? It murders thought, quenches fancy, , 
spoils paper, wears out innocent goose-quills. *' I'd rather be a 
kitten, and cry mew ! than one of those same" prosing letter- 
mongers. 

Surely in this age of invention something may be struck out to 
obviate the necessity (if such necessity exists) of so tasking, de- 
grading, human intellect ! Why should there not be construct- 
ed a sort of mute barrel-organ, on the plan of those that play 
sets of tunes and country-dances, to indite a catalogue of polite 
epistles, sufficiently meaning to answer all the purposes of cere- 
monious good-breeding ? Oh the unspeakable relief (were such 
a consummation possible) of having only to g7'ind an answer to 
one of " one's dear five hundred friends !" Or suppose there were 
to be an epistolary steam-engine ! Steam does every thing nowa- 
days. Worthy Mr. Brunei, take the matter into serious consid- 
eration, I beseech you ! Set your wits to work, and achieve what 
would be the masterpiece of your marvellous inventions. The 
block-machine at Portsmouth would be nothing to it. That spares 
manual labour — this would relieve mental drudgery ; and thou- 
sands yet unborn .... But hold ! I am not so sure that the fe- 
male sex in general may quite enter into my views of the subject. 
Those who pique themselves on " I'eloquence du billet;" those 
fair Scribblerinas just emancipated from boarding-school restraint, 
or from the dragonism of their governesses, just beginning to pour 
out their pretty souls in the refined intercourse of sentimental, 
confidential, ineffable correspondence, with some Angelina, Sera- 



THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. 



phina, or Laura Matilda, dwelling at Roseniount Cottage, or Myr- 
tle Villa, or Eglantine Vale ; to indite beautiful little notes with 
long-tailed letters, upon vellum-paper with pink margins, sealed 
[with sweet mottoes and dainty devices — all new and original — 
« Je ne change qu'en mourant," " Forget-me-not," or Cupid with 
a rose, and " Une seule me suffit;" the whole delicately per- 
fumed with musk and atar of roses ; young ladies who collect 
"copies of verses" and charades, receipts for painting boxes and 
making alum-baskets and bead-necklaces; keep albums, copy 
patterns, make bread-seals, work little dogs upon footstools, and 
paint flowers without shadow — Oh no ! the epistolary steam-en- 
gine will never come into favour with those dear industrious crea- 
tures, whose minds are in a state of constant activity, like the lit- 
tle eels in rain-water, and must work off their exuberant energies 
somehow. They must luxuriate in " the feast of reason and the 
flow of soul ;" and they must write— ye gods— how they do write ! 
But for another genus of female scribes. Unhappy innocents ! 
who groan in spirit at the dire necessity of having to hammer out 
one of those aforesaid terrible epistles, though having in due form 
dated the gilt-edged sheet that lies outspread before them in ap- 
palling whiteness ; having also felicitously achieved the custom- 
ary and most veracious exordium—" My dear Mrs. P. ;" or, " My 
dearest Lady V. ;" or, " My dear, dear ... any thing else,'^ feel 
that they are in for it, and must say something. Oh, that sojne- 
thing that must be made out of nothing /—those bricks that must 
be made without straw !— those pages that must be covered over 
with words ! — yea, with words that must be sewed into sentences 
—yea, with sentences that must seem to mean something !— the 
whole to be ingeniously tacked together— all neatly fitted and 
dovetailed, so as to form, when complete, one smooth, polished 
surface of elegant composition. What were the labours of Her- 
cules to such a task ? The very thought of it puts one in a men- 
tal perspiration ; and from my inmost heart I compassionate the 

25* 



94 THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. 



unfortunates, now (at this very moment perhaps) screwed up per. 
pendicular in the seat of torture — having in the right hand a fresh- 
nibbed patent pen, (the infliction of the thumbscrew would be mord 
bearable !) dipped ever and anon in the inkbottle, as if to fish up; 
ideas— and under the outspread palm of the left hand, (spread out 
immovably in the very flatness of despair !) a fair sheet of the bestj 
Bath post (ready to receive ideas yet unhatched), on which theiri 
eyes are riveted with a stare of disconsolate perplexity, infinitely i 
touching to a feeling mind. To such unhappy persons, in whose i 

miseries I deeply sympathize Have I not groaned under j 

the experience of similar horrors, from the hour when I was first | 
shut up (under lock and key, I believe) to indite a dutiful epistle 
to an honoured aunt ? I remember, as if it had occurred but yes- 
terday, the moment when she, who had enjoined the task, entered 
to inspect the performance, for which, by her calculation, ample 
time had been allowed me — I remember how sheepishly I hung 
down my head, and began twitching to pieces the feathery top of 
my pen, when she snatched from before me the paper, on which I 
had made no further progress than " My dear Ant," angrily ex- 
claiming, " What, child ! have you been shut up here three hours 
to call your aunt a pismire !" 

From that hour of humiliation, I have too often groaned under 
the endurance of like penance ; and have learned, from my own 
sufferings, to commiserate those of my dear sisters in affliction. 
To those distressed persons, then, I feel myself irresistibly im- 
pelled to offer a few hints (the fruit of long and bitter experience), 
which, if they have not been already suggested by their own ob- 
servation, may prove serviceable in the hour of emergency. 

Let them, or suppose I address myself to one particular 

sufferer — there is something more satisfactory, more confidential, 
in communicating one's ideas, when, as Moore says, " heart speaks 
to heart !" — Therefore, dear sister in aflfliction, to you I address 
myself. And, first, I recommend — Take always special care to 



THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. 95 



(frrite by candlelight ; for not only is the apparently unimportant 
operation of snuffing the candle in itself a momentary relief to 
the depressing consciousness of mental vacuum, but not unfre- 
quently that trifling manual exertion, together with the brighten- 
ing flame of the taper, elicits, as it were, a sympathetic spark of 
fortunate conception from the dull embers of the brain. Should 
such a one occur, seize it quickly and dexterously, but, at the 
same time, with tender caution, so as not to huddle up and con- 
tract in one short paltry sentence, that which, if ingeniously man- 
aged, may be beat out, and wire-drawn, so as to undulate smooth- 
ly and gracefully over a whole page. For the more skilful prac- 
tice of this invaluable art of dilating, it will be expedient to stock 
your memory with a large assortment of those precious words of 
many syllables that fill whole lines at once—" incomprehensibly 
— amazingly — indubitably — inconceivably — incont rovertibly," 
&c., &c. These words have not only, to the eye, a fine general 
effect, but, if the letter is read aloud, there is something very im- 
posing in the mere sound of them ; and a long paragraph about 
nothing, composed in this grand rolling style, will, nine times out 
of ten, pass current for very fine writing, when a pithy sentence, 
full of excellent matter, will be skimmed over with contempt, if 

" Ten low words creep slow in one dull line." 

An opportunity of introducing these thunderers is invaluable to a 
distressed spinner, besides that, they are really as delightful to 
trace on the paper, as a copy all m's and n's is to a child—" Com- 
mand you may, your mind from play." 

I have known a judicious selection of such, cunningly arran- 
ged, and neatly linked together with a few monosyllables, inter- 
jections, and epithets (the two latter may be liberally used with 
good general effect), so worked up as to form altogether a very 
respectable and e-ven elegant composition ; such as, amongst the 
best judges of that peculiar style, has been pronounced « a charm- 



96 THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. 



ini? 



letter !"— and yet, by more homely, matter-of-fact readers, i 
would not, perhaps, have been allowed to contain one sentence 
of meaning in the whole three pages, two ends, and precious little 
bit under the seal. 

Then the pause— the break— has altogether a picturesque efi 
feet; long-tailed "down-sweeping" and " up-swaling" letters^ 
and d's turning "jauntily" over, with a grand whisking curvel 
like squirrels' tails, are not only beautiful in themselves, but the 
use of them necessarily creates such a space between the lines^ 
as helps one honourably and expeditiously over the ground to bej 
covered. Your " down-sweepers," in particular, may be dashed:! 
off so boldly, as beautifully to obscure the line underneath, with- 
out rendering it wholly illegible. This, however, is but a minori 
elegance — a mere illumination of the manuscript. I pass on to 
remarks of more importance. 

There is one expedient which, if judiciously resorted to, is of 
inestimable value in times of extreme mental dearth, but requir- 
ing to be managed with such nice tact, that none but an expe- 
rienced spinner should have recourse to it. You may contrive, 
by the help of a little alteration, amplification, and transposition, 
&c. &c., to amuse your correspondent with a recapitulation of 
the very matter which formed the groundwork of his or her last 
epistle to yourself. Should he detect this manoeuvre (against 
which the chances are at least equal), he will be restrained by 
good-breeding from making any observations to yourself on the 
subject ; and indeed (if he be a candid and reasonable person) 
will rather give you credit for the ingenious and obliging manner 
in which you have contrived to refresh his memory, and to im- 
press on it more indelibly those interesting points he had con- 
ceived worthy to fix your attention. Again— you need not ap- 
prehend that he shall turn your own arms against you. The 
ammunition will be quite spent in your retort, so that it will still 



THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. 97 

De his business to furnish fresh charges— every thing (you per- 
jeive) at this game depending on the first fire. 

This species of manoeuvre, as I have already observed, should 
by no means be rashly ventured on, but it is an art well worth 
the trouble of acquiring, at the expense of some pains and study 
—one (if you are so fortunate as to become a proficient in it) that 
will relieve you from all further anxiety on the score of letter- 
writing, furnishing you, at the expense of your correspondents, 
with ample materials for your own epistolary compositions. As 
to the strict honesty of this proceeding, no conscience need, I 
think, be so squeamish as to hesitate on the subject ; for, in fact, 
what has conscience to do with the style of correspondence under 
our present consideration ? It were well, in truth, if a fine lady's 
letter were often so honestly made up ; for (generally speaking) 
would not the abstract of such a one, fairly interpreted, run 
thus ?— 



98 THOUGHTS ON LETTER- WRITING. 



My dearest Lady D. 

With feelings of the most inexpressibly affectionate interest, ] 

take up my pen to congratulate you on the marriage of your[ 

lovely accomplished Alethea. [ 

To you, who know every thought of my heart, it is almost] 
unnecessary to say, that, next to the maternal tenderness with 
which I watch over my own girls, I am most anxiously interested 
in every thing that relates to your charming family. 

That sweet love, Alethea, has always, you know, been my, 
peculiar favourite ; and tears of exulting tenderness swell into 
my eyes, when I think of the brilliant establishment you have, 
secured for her. 

Our long intimacy, my beloved friend, and my maternal affec- . 
tion for the dear creature, are pleas which I shall urge in claim- J 
ing the delightful office of presenting her. With what prides 
shall I see the superb V diamonds in her lovely auburn locks ! ! 

Soon, very soon, friend of my, heart ! may I have to congratu-. 
late you on 55onne equally advantageous ftstahlislirnpnt for your ^ 
sweet, delicate Anna Maria. 

I earnestly hope that foolish story (which you have heard of 
course) about Lord V.'s keeping an opera girl at Paris, and hav- 
ing lost L. 10,000 at the Salon at one sitting, will not reach the ■ 
ear of our sweet sensitive girl. But people are so malicious ! ' 

Where are your two lovely boys ? We have not seen them 
since they came from Eton, and you know how I delight in their 
charming spirits. 

&c. &c. &c. &c. &c. 
And remains ever, 

With the most inviolable attachment, 
My dearest Lady D.'s 

Most truly affectionate, 

M. G. 



THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. 



You TIRESOME OLD ToAD, 

You've manoeuvred off one of your gawky frights at last ; and 
I must say something on the occasion. 

How the deuce did you contrive to hook that noodle of a lord, 
when I have been angling ever since he came of age to catch 
him for my eldest girl 1 

That pert minx Alethea has always been my peculiar aver- 
sion ; and I'm ready to cry with spite at the idea of her being a 
Countess. 

You can't hobble to court on your crutches, so I, forsooth, shall 
be asked to present her Ladyship ; and I must do it, though I 

know I shall expire with vexation at seeing the V diamonds 

in her odious red hair. 

One comfort is, you'll never be able to get off that little hump- 
backed thing Anna Maria ; and you know well enough there's 
no hope of it, so hate to be talked to about her. 

You won't care much about it, even if it were true : but I can 
think of nothing else to plague the old cat. I'll take care the 
young one shall know it somehow. 

I'd as lieve have a couple of wild-cats turned loose into my 
drawing-room as those two riotous cubs. But I've nine girls to 
bring out yet, and the young M.'s will be tolerable catches, though 
only honourables. 

Fudge, fudge, fudge, fudge, fudge ! 

I think I have given you enough for one dose, though I am 
afraid you're up to me. 

I hate you cordially ; thafs certain. 

M. G. 



"I NEVER CAST A FLOWER AWAY." 



I NEVER CAST A FLOWEE AWAY 



I NEVER cast a flower away, 

The gift of one who cared for me — 

A little flower — a faded flower — 
But it was done reluctantly. 

I never look'd a last adieu 

To things familiar, but my heart 

Shrank with a feeling almost pain. 
Even from their lifelessness to part. 

I never spoke the word " Farewell," 

But with an utterance faint and broken ; 

An earth-sick longing for the time 
When it shall never more be spoken. 



THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF." 101 



"THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF. 



There is a tongue in every leaf, 

A voice in every rill ! — 
A voice that speaketh every where, 
In flood and fire, through earth and air- 

A tongue that's never still ! 

'Tis the Great Spirit, wide diffused 

Through every thing we see, 
That with our spirits communeth 
Of things mysterious — Life and Death- 
Time and Eternity. 

I see him in the blazing sun, 

And in the thunder-cloud — 
I hear him in the mighty roar, 
That rusheth through the forest hoar 
When winds are piping loud. 

I see him, hear him every where, 
In all things — Darkness, Light, 
Silence, and Sound — but, most of all, 
When slumber's dusky curtains fall 
At the dead hour of night. 

\feel him in the silent dews 
By grateful earth betray 'd — 
26 



^ 



THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF. 



I feel him in the gentle showers, 
The soft south wind — the breath of flowers- 
The sunshine and the shade. 

And yet, ungrateful that I am ! 

I've turn'd in sullen mood 
From all these things — whereof he said, 
When the great work was finished. 

That they were " Very good !" 

My sadness on the fairest things 

Fell like unwholesome dew — 
The darkness that encompass'd me, 
The gloom I felt so palpably, 

Mine own dark spirit threw. 

Yet he was patient, slow to wrath, 

Though ev'ry day provoked 
By selfish pining discontent, 
Acceptance cold, or negligent. 

And promises revoked. 

And still the same rich feast was spread 

For my insensate heart. 
Not always so — I woke again 
To join creation's rapt'rous strain — 

" Oh Lord ! how good Thou art !" 

The clouds drew up, the shadows fled, 
The glorious sun broke out — 

And Love, and Hope, and Gratitude, 

Dispell'd that miserable mood 
Of darkness and of doubt. 



THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. lOS 



THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. 



My child was beautiful and brave ! 

An opening flower of spring ! 
He moulders in a distant grave, 

A cold forgotten thing. 
Forgotten ! — Ay, by all but me. 
As e'en the best beloved must be — 
Farewell, farewell, my dearest ! 

Methinks 't had been a comfort now 
To have caught his parting breath — 

Had I been near, from his damp brow 
To wipe the dews of death — 

With one long ling'ring kiss to close 

His eyelids for the last repose — 

Farewell, farewell, my dearest ! 

I little thought such wish to prove, 
When, cradled on my breast. 

With all a mother's cautious love 
His sleeping lids I prest. 

Alas, alas ! his dying head 

Was pillow'd on a colder bed — 

Farewell, farewell, my dearest ! 



104 THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. 

They told me Vict'ry's laurels wreath'd 

His youthful temples round — 
That " Vict'ry !" from his lips was breathed, 

The last exulting sound — 
Cold comfort to a mother's ear, 
That long'd his living voice to hear — 
Farewell, farewell, my dearest ! 

E'en so thy gallant father died, 
When thou, poor orphan child ! 

A helpless prattler at my side. 
My widow'd grief beguiled. 

But now, bereaved of all in thee. 

What earthly voice shall comfort me ? — 
Farewell, farewell, my dearest \ 



MY EVENING. 105 



MY EVENING. 



Farewell, bright Sun ! mine eyes have watch'd 

Thine hour of waning light ; 
And tender twilight ! fare-thee-well — 

And welcome star-crown'd night ! 

Pale ! serious ! silent ! with deep spell 

Lulling the heart to rest : 
As lulls the mother's low sweet song 

The infant on her breast. 

Mine own beloved hour . — mme own ! 

Sacred to quiet thought, 
To sacred mem'ries, to calm joys, 

With no false lustre fraught ! 

Mine own beloved hour ! for now, 

Methinks, with garish day 
I shut the world out, and with those 

Long lost, or far away, 

The dead, the absent, once again 

My soul holds converse free — 
To such illusions, Life ! how dull 

Thy best reality ! 

26* 



MY EVENING. 



The vernal nights are chilly yet, 

And cheerily and bright 
The hearth still blazes, flasliing round 

Its ruddy flick'ring light. 

" Bring in the lamp so — set it there, 

Just show its veiled ray 
(Leaving all else in shadowy tone). 

Falls on my hook and — stay — 

" Leave my work by me" — Well I love 

The needle's useful art ; 
'Tis unambitious — womanly — 

And mine's a woman's heart. 

Not that I ply with sempstress rage, 

As if for life, or bread ; 
No, sooth to say — unconsciously 

Slackening the half-drawn thread, 

From fingers that (as spell-bound) stop, 

Pointing the needle wrong. 
Mine eyes towards the open book 

Stray oft, and tarry long. 

" Stop, stop ! Leave open the glass-door 

Into that winter bower;" 
For soon therein th' uprisen moon 

Will pour her silvery shower ; 

Will glitter on those glossy leaves ; 

On that white pavement shine : 
And dally with her eastern love, 

That wreathing jessamine. 



MY EVENING. 107 



" Thanks, Lizzy ! No ; there's nothing more 

Thy loving zeal can do ; 
Only — Oh yes ! — that gipsy flower,* 

Set that beside me too." — 

" That Ethiop, in its china vase ?" — 

'• Ay ; set it liere ; — that's right. 
Shut the door after you." — 'Tis done ; 

I'm settled for the night. 

Settled and snug j — and first, as if 

The fact to ascertain, 
I glance around, and stir the fire, 

And trim the lamp again. 

Then, dusky flower ! I stoop t' inhale 

Thy fragrance. Thou art one 
That wooeth not the vulgar eye, 

Nor the broad staring sun : 

Therefore I love thee ! — (Selfish love 

Such preference may be ;) 
That thou reservest all thy sweets, 

Coy thing ! for night and me. 

What sound was that 1 Ah, Madam Puss ! 

I know that tender mew — 
That meek, white face — those sea-green eye-s— 

Those whiskers, wet with dew, 

To the cold glass — the greenhouse glass — 
Press'd closely from without ; 

* The night-smelling stock. 



108 MY EVENING. 



Well, thou art heard — I'll let thee in, 
Though skulking home, no doubt, 

From lawless prowl. — Ah, ruthless cat ! 

What evil hast thou done ? 
What deeds of rapine, the broad eye 

Of open day that shun ? 

What ! not a feather pluck'd to-night ? 

Is that what thou wouldst tell 
With that soft pur, those winking eyes, 

And waving tail ! — Well, well, 

I know thee, friend ! — But get thee in, 

By Ranger stretch and doze ; 
Nay, never growl, old man ! her tait 

Just whisk'd across thy nose. 

But 'twas no act premeditate, 

Thy greatness to molest : 
Then, with that long luxurious sigh. 

Sink down again to rest ; 

But not before one loving look 
Toward me, with that long sigh. 

Says, " Mistress mine ! all's right, all's well ! 
TAow'rt there, and here am /.'" — 

That point at rest, we're still again. 

I on my work intent ; 
At least, with poring eyes thereon. 

In seeming earnest bent : 



MY EVENING. 109 



And fingers, nimble at their task, 

Mechanically true ; 
Tho' heaven knows where, what scenes, the while, 

My thoughts are travelling to ! 

Now far from earth — now over earth, 

Traversing lands and seas ; — 
Now stringing, in a sing-song mood. 

Such idle rhymes as these ; — 

Now dwelling on departed days — 

Ah ! that's no lightsome mood ; — 
On those to come — no longer now 

Through hope's bright focus view'd. 

On that which is — ay, there I pause. 

No more in young delight ; 
But patient, grateful, well assured, 

" Whatever is, is right !" 

And all to be is in His hands— 

Oh, who would take it thence ? 
Give me not up to mine own will. 

Merciful Providence ! 

Such thought, when other thoughts, may be, 

Are darkening into gloom. 
Comes to me like the angel shape. 

That, standing by the tomb, 

Cheer'd those who came to sorrow there. — 

And then I see, and bless 
His love in all that he withholds, 

And all I still possess. 



MY EVENING. 



So varied — now with book, or work, 

Or pensive reverie. 
Or waking dreams, or fancy flights. 

Or scribbling vein, may be ; 

Or eke the pencil's cunning craft, 

Or lowly murmur'd lay 
To the according viola — 

Calm evening slips away. 

The felt-shod hours move swiftly on, 

Until the stroke of ten 
(The accustom'd signal) summons round 

My little household. Then, 

The door unclosing, enters first 

That aged faithful friend, 
Whose prayer is with her Master's child 

Her blameless days to end. 

The younger pair come close behind ; 

But her dear hand alone — 
(Her dear old hand ! now tremulous 

With palsying weakness grown) — 

Must rev'rently before me place 
The Sacred Book. 'Tis there— 

And all our voices, all our hearts, 
Unite in solemn prayer. 

In praise and thanksgiving, for all 

The blessings of the light ; 
In prayer, that He would keep us through 

The watches of the night. 



MY EVENING. Ill 



A simple rite ! and soon perform'd ; 

Leaving, in every breast, 
A heart more fittingly prepared 

For sweet, untroubled rest. 

And so we part. — But not before, 

Dear nurse ! a kiss from thee 
Imprints my brow. Thy fond good-night ! 

To God commending me ! 

Amen ! — And may His angels keep 

Their watch around thy bed, 
A.nd guard from every hurtful thing 

That venerable head ! 



FAREWELL TO MY FRIENDS. 



FAREWELL TO MY FRIENDS. 



Oh ! wear no mourning weeds for me, 
When I am laid i' the ground ! 

Oh ! shed no tears for one whose sleep 
Will then be sweet and sound ! 

Only, my friends ! do this for me, — 
Pluck many a pale primrose. 

And strew them on my shroud, before 
The coffin-lid they close. 

And lay the heart's-ease on my breast, 
(Meet emblem there 'twill be,) 

And gently place in my cold hand 
A sprig of rosemary. 

And by the buried bones of those 

Whom living I loved best ; 
See me at last laid quietly — 

Then leave me to my rest. 

And when the church-bell tolls for me 
Its last, long, hollow knell ; 

As the deep murmur dies away. 
Bid me a kind farewell. 



FAREWELL TO MY FRIENDS. 113 

And, slay — Methinks there's something yet 

I'd fain request of ye ; 
Something — I'd bid ye comfort, keep, 

Or love, for love of me. 

My nurse ! — Oh ! she will only wait 

Till I am fast asleep. 
Then close beside me, stealthily, 

To her own pillow creep. 

My dog ! — Poor fellow ! Let him not 

Know hunger — hardship — wrong — 
But he is old and feeble too, 

He will not miss me long. 

My dwelling ! — That will pass away 

To those, when I am gone, 
Will raze the lowly edifice 

To its foundation-stone. 

My flowers ! — That in deep loneliness 

Have been as friends to me — 
My garden ! — That, let run to waste, 

A common field will be. 

My picture ! — That's already yours — 

Resemblance true, ye say : 
Oh, true indeed ! — A thing of dust, 

That vanisheth away ! 

My harp ! — But that's a fairy gift 

I can bequeath to none — 
Unearthly hands will take it back 

When the last strain is done. 
27 



114 FAREWELL TO MY FRIENDS. 

So then, I've nothing more to ask, 

And little left to give ; 
And yet I know, in your kind hearts 

My memory will live. 

And so farewell, my dear good friends ! 

And farewell, world, to thee — 
I part with some in love — with all 

Tn peace and charity. 



THE PRIMROSE. 115 



THE PRIMROSE 



I SAW it in my evening walk, 

A little lonely flower ! 
Under a hollow bank it grew, 

Deep in a mossy bower. 

An oak's gnarl'd root, to roof the cave 
With Gothic fretwork sprung, 

Whence jewell'd fern, and arum leaves, 
And ivy garlands hung. 

And from beneath came sparkling out 
From a fall'n tree's old shell, 

A little rill, that dipt about 
The lady in her cell. 

And there, methought, with bashful pride, 

She seem'd to sit and look 
On her own maiden loveliness, 

Pale imaged in the brook. 

No other flower — no rival grew 

Beside my pensive maid ; 
She dwelt alone, a cloister'd nun, 

In solitude and shade. 



116 THE PRIMROSE. 



No sunbeam on that fairy well 

Darted its dazzling light — 
Only, methought, some clear, cold star 

Might tremble there at night. 

No ruffling wind could reach her there — 
No eye, methought, but mine. 

Or the young lamb's that came to drink, 
Had spied her secret shrine. 

And there was pleasantness to me 

In such belief. Cold eyes 
That slight dear Nature's lowliness, 

Profane her mysteries. 

Long time I look'd and linger'd there, 

Absorb'd in still delight — 
My spirit drank deep quietness 

In, with that quiet sight. 



FAREWELL TO GREECE. 117 



FAREWELL TO GREECE. 



Farewell for ever, classic land 

Of tyrants and of slaves ! 
My homeward path lies far away 

Over the dark blue waves : 

And when I go, no marble fanes 

From myrtle steeps arise, 
Nor shineth there such fervid suns 

From such unclouded skies. 

But yet, the earth of that dear land 

Is holier earth to me, 
Than thine, immortal Marathon ! 

Or thine, Thermopylse ! 

For there my fathers' ashes rest, 
And living hearts there be — 

Warm living hearts, and loving ones, 
That still remember me. 

And, oh ! the land that welcometh 

To one such bosom shrine. 
Though all beside were ruin'd — lost^- 

That land would still be mine. 

27* 



118 FAREWELL TO GREECE. 

Ay, mine ! — albeit the breath of life 
Not there I breathed first — 

Ay, mine ! — albeit with barrenness 
And polar darkness curst. 

The bird that wanders all day long, 
At sunset seeks her nest : 

I've wandered long — my native land ! 
Now take me to thy rest. 



THE SMUGGLER. "9 



I 



THE SMUGGLER 



I SPENT the whole oflast summer, and part of the ensuing win- 
ter, on the Hampshire coast, visiting successively most of its sea- 
ports and watering-places, and enjoying its beautiful diversity of 
sea and wood scenery, often so intermingled that the forest-trees 
dip down their flexile branches into the salt waters of the solent 
sea ; and green lawns and heathy glades slope down to the edge 
of the silver sands, and not unfrequently to the very brink of the 



water. 



In no part of Hampshire is this characteristic beauty more strik- 
ingly exemplified than at the back of the Isle of Wight, that min- 
iature abstract of all that is grand and lovely in the parent Isle, 
of which it is so aptly denominated " The Garden." 

Early in August, I crossed over from Portsmouth to Ryde, pur- 
posing to fix my headquarters there, and from thence to make ex- 
cursions to all such places as are accounted worthy the tourist's 
notice. But a guidebook is at best an unsympathizing compan- 
ion, cold and formal (though not quite so tiresome) as the human 
machine that leads you over some old abbey or venerable cathe- 
dral, pointing out, indeed, in its dull, drowsy tone, unvaried to 
all visiters, the principal monuments or chapels, but passing by 
unnoticed a hundred less outwardly distinguished spots, where 
feeling would love to linger, and sentiment find inexhaustible 
sources of interest and contemplation. 

For lack of a better, however, I set out with my silent guide, 



^2^ THE SMUGGLER. 



but soon strayed wide of its directions, rambling hither and thither 
often tarrying days and hours in places Unhonoured by its notice'i 
and perversely deviating from the beaten road that would have 
conducted some more docile tourist, and one of less independent 
taste, to such or such a nobleman's or gentleman's seat, or sum^ 
mer-house, or pavilion, built on purpose to be visited and admired. 
But I did not shape my course thus designedly in a spirit of op. 
position to the mute director, whose not unserviceable clue led me 
at last among the romantic rocks and cottages of Shanklin, Niton, 
and Undercliff. It led me, indeed, to those enchanting spots, and 
to their beautiful vicinity, but to entice me thence was more than 
all its inviting promises could effect ; and, finally, I took up my 
abode for an indefinite time in a cottage of native grey-stone, 
backed by the solid rock, and tapestried in front with such an in- I 
terwoven texture of rose and myrtle, as half hid the little case- 
ments, and aspired far over the thatched roof and projecting eaves. 
Days, weeks, months, slipped away imperceptibly in this deli- 
cious retreat, and in all the luxury of lounging felicity. Mine 
was idleness, it is true— the sensation of perfect exemption from 
all existing necessity of mental or corporeal exertion— not suspen- 
sion of ideas, but rather a festival of mind, during which the wild 
vagrant thought was at liberty to wander at will beyond the nar- 
row boundaries, within which the cares, and claims, and busi- 
ness of this world, too often restrained her natural excursive. 



ness. 



Summer passed away— the harvest was reaped and gathered 
into the barns— the hazel-hedges were despoiled of their last clus- 
ters of nuts— autumn verged on the approach of winter— and I still 
tenanted the rock-cottage. Nowhere are we so tenderly made 
sensible of the changes of the season as in the sea's immediate 
vicinity ; and the back of the Isle of Wight is, of all stations on 
our coast, that where this common remark is most forcibly illus- 
trated . Completely screened from the north by a continuous wall 



THE SMUGGLER. 121 



»f high rocky cliff, its shores are exposed only to the southern and 
vesterly winds, and those are tempered to the peculiar softness 
ilways — almost always — perceptible in sea-breezes on a mild 
lutumn's day, or bright winter's morning, when the sun sparkles 
)n the white sands and scintillating waves — or on the waveless 
nirror of ^he deep blue sea— on the sails of the little fishing-boats 
;hat steal along-shore, with their wings spread open like large 
butterflies— on the glancing silver of the seagull's wings, as she 
dives after her finny prey, or flashes upward through a shower of 
feathery foam— or on the tall grey cliffs; tinted with many-colour- 
ed lichens. A lounger on the beach will hardly perceive that the 
year is in " its sear and yellow leaf," or already fallen into the 
decrepitude of winter : and when his awful heralds, the unchained 
elements, proclaim aloud that the hoary tyrant Jiat/i commenced 
his reign— when the winds are let loose from the caverns, and 
the agitated sea rolls its waves in mountainous ridges on the rocky 
coast— when the porpoise heaves up its black bulk, and disports 
itself with uncouth gambols amidst the foam of the shallower wa- 
ters—when the cormorant's screams mingle in harsh concord 
with the howling blast— Then !— oh then ! who can tear himself 
from the contemplation of a scene, more sublimely interesting 
than all the calm loveliness of a summer prospect ! To me its 
attractions were irresistible : and, besides those of inanimate nature, 
I found other sources of lively interest, in studying the character 
and habits of the almost amphibious dwellers on that island coast. 
Generally speaking, there is something peculiarly interesting in 
the character of seafaring men— even of those whose voyages 
have extended little beyond the windings of their own shores. 
The fisherman's life, indeed, may be accounted one of the most 
incessant peril. For daily bread he must brave daily dangers. 
In that season when the tiller of the ground rests from his labours 
—when the artisan and mechanic are warmly housed— when the 
dormouse and the squirrel sleep in their soft woolly nests, and the 



I''i2 THE SMUGGLER. 



1 



little birds find shelter in hollow trees and banks, or migrate t 
milder regions, the poor fisherman must encounter all the fur 
of the combined elements, for his children's bread is scattered 
on the waters. 

It is this perpetually enforced familiarity with danger, tha 
interests our feelings so powerfully in their behalf, together witl 
its concomitant effects on their character— undaunted hardihood 
insurmountable perseverance, almost heroic daring ; and, gene( 
rally speaking, a simplicity of heart, and a tenderness of deport 
ment towards the females and the little ones of their families 
finely contrasting their rugged exterior. But, unfortunately; 
is not only in their ostensible calling of fishermen, that these mer 
are forward in efl?*ronting danger ; the temptations held out by 
contraband traffic, too often allure them from their honest and 
peaceable avocations to brave the laws of their country, and 
encounter the most fearful risks in pursuit of precarious, though 
sometimes considerable, gains. Of late, this desperate trade has 
extended almost to a regularly-organized system ; and, in spited 
of all the preventive measures adopted by the government of tha 
country, it is too obvious that the number of these "freetraders, 
is yearly increasing, and that their hazardous commerce is more 
daringly and more vigorously carried on. Along the Hampshire: 
coast, and more particularly in the Isle of Wight, almost every 
seafaring man is concerned in it to a greater or less extent. For 
the most part, they are connected in secret associations, both fori 
co-operation and defence ; and there is a sort of freemasonry 
amongst them, the signs and tokens of which are soon discernible 
to an attentive observer, and one whose unofficial character 
awakens no distrust on their part. " The Customhouse Sharks," 
as they call them, are not their most formidable foes, for they 
wage a more desperate warfare (as recent circumstansces have 
too fatally testified) with that part of our naval armament em- 
ployed by Government on the preventive service. Some of the 



THE SMUGGLER, 123 



' vessels on those stations are perpetually hovering along our 
coasts ; but in spite of their utmost vigilance, immense quantities 
of contraband goods are almost nightly landed, and nowhere with 
more daring frequency than in the Isle of Wight. 

In my rambles along its shores, the inhabitants of almost every 
cottage and fisherman's cabin, for many miles round, became 
known to me. I have at all times a peculiar pleasure in con- 
versing with this class of people — in listening with familiar 
interest (to which they are never insensible) to the details of their 
feelings and opinions, and to the homely history of their obscure 
lives and domestic cares. 

With some of my new acquaintances, I had ventured to expos- 
tulate on the iniquitous as well as hazardous nature of their 
secret traffic ; and many wives and mothers sanctioned, with ap- 
proving looks and half-constrained expressions, my remonstrances 
to their husbands and sons. These, for the most part, listened in 
sullen, down-looking silence (not, however, expressive of ill-will 
towards me), or sometimes answered my expostulations with the 
remark, that " Poor folk must live y" — that half of them, during 
the war, had earned an honest livelihood in channels that were 
now closed against them. They were turned adrift to shift for 
themselves, and must do something to get bread for their little 
ones. " And after all," they would generally conclude, " while 
the rich and great folk, and some of those that made the laws too" 
(their ladies and daughters at least), " were pleased to encourage 
their trade, it was a plain case they could not think much harm 
of those that carried it on." 

This last was a stinging observation — one that generally 
silenced me for the moment, while it gave fresh fervency to my 
earnest wish, that the penalties of the law could be enforced ten, 
twenty, nay, an hundred fold, on those rich and great ones, who, 
in the mere wantonness of vanity, luxury, or idleness, tempted 



124 THE SMUGGLER. 



these poor creatures to offend, and subjected them to the sever< 
but necessary awards of retributive justice. 

Among those poor families was one, at whose cabin I stoppec 
oflenest, and lingered longest in my evening rambles. The littlt 
dwelling was in a manner wedged into a cleft of the grey rockl 
up which, on every little shelf-like platform, the hand of industrj 
had accumulated garden-mould, and fostered a beautiful vegeta- 
tion ; and, immediately before it, a patch of the loveliest green, 
sward sloped down to the edge of the sea-sand, enamelled with 
aromatic wild thyme, and dotted, nearest the ocean, with tufts of 
thrift, centaury, and eringo, and with the gold-coloured blossoms! 
of the horn poppy. The romantic appearance and peculiar neat-:! 
ness of the little cabin, had early attracted my attention, whichl 
was further interested by the singular appearance of its owner.' 
He was a large, tall man, of about sixty, distinguished by an airi 
of uncommon dignity, and by an accoutrement, the peculiarity of: 
which, combined with his commanding carriage, and countenance: 
of bold daring, always brought the Buccaneer of old times to my 
remembrance. He wore large loose trowsers, of shaggy dark: 
blue cloth ; a sort of woollen vest, broadly striped with the samei 
colour, for the most part open at the throat and bosom, and girt : 
in below with a broad leathern belt, in which a brace of horse- 
pistols were generally stuck, and not un frequently an old cutlass ; 
and over his shoulder was slung a cross-belt of broad white knit- 
ting, to which was suspended a powder-flask, a leathern pouch, 
and often a short, thick duck-gun. A dark fur cap was the usual 
covering of his head ; and his thick, black, curling hair, was not 
so much intermingled with grey, as streaked here and there with 
locks of perfect whiteness. Add to this costume, a fortnight's 
growth of grizzly, stubborn beard (the crop was seldom of less 
standing), and such was the tout ensemble of this uncommon per- 
sonage. Notwithstanding this formidable equipment, however, 
his ostensible employment was the harmless one of a fisher of the 



THE SMUGGLER. 125 



deep — though, to all appearance, not very zealously pursued ; for, 
in the daytime, he was oftener to be seen lying along the shore ia 
the broad sunshine, or sauntering by the water's edge, or perched 
like a sea-fowl, immovable for hours, on some commanding sta- 
tion of the crag, always with a pipe in his mouth — a meerschaum 
pipe — (uncommon luxury for an English boatman !) — and a spy- 
glass ever in his hand, or at his eye. He was oftener to be seen 
thus, or cleaning the lock of his gun under the shadow of some 
projecting cliff, than busied with the trawling-net, or the eel-spear, 
or the hook and line, in his little boat, or mending her sails, or his 
nets, by the cabin-door. At almost all hours of the night a light 
was seen burning within the cottage ; and the master of the 
family, with his son, was invariably absent, jvhen, as it often 
chanced with me, "I looked in on them after dark, on my return 
from some distant spot to my own habitation. 

At such an hour, I was sure to find the female inmates (the 
wife and daughter of the man I have been describing), in a state 
of evident perturbation, for which it was easy to assign a suffi- 
cient cause ; but I had remonstrated in vain with the infatuated 
husband and father, and it was still more fruitless to argue with 
the helpless women. 

Richard Campbell was not a native of the Isle of Wight, nor 
one trained, from his youth up, " to go down to the sea in ships, 
and occupy his business in deep waters." 

For many generations his family had owned and cultivated a 
small farm in the north of England. Himself had been bred a 
tiller of the ground, contrary to his own wishes, which had point- 
ed from his very cradle to a seafaring life : and all his hours of 
boyish pastime and youthful leisure, were spent on the salt ele- 
ment, close to which, at the head of a small bay or inlet, lay his 
paternal farm. Just as he had attained his twentieth year his fa- 
ther died, leaving him (an only child) the inheritor of all his little 
property, and at liberty to follow the bent of his own inclinations. 

28 



126 THE SMUGGLER. 



The temptation was strong. Tumultuous wishes and roving 
thoughts were busy in his heart ; but " he was the only son of hi&' 
mother, and she was a widow." He stayed to comfort her old 
age, and to cultivate his little inheritance ; partly influenced also 
by his attachment to a pretty blue-eyed girl, whose sweeter smiles 
rewarded his filial piety, and whose hand in wedlock was, shortly 
after, its richer recompence. 

The widowed mother continued to dwell under her son's roof, 
tended, like Naomi, by a daughter-in-law as loving and dutiful as 
Ruth, but happier than the Hebrew matron, in the possession of 
both her children. 

Many children were born to the young couple, "as likely boys 
and girls as ever ^e sun shone upon," said the wife of Campbell ; 
from whom, at sundry times, I collected the simple annals I am 
relating. " But God was very good to them. He bade their store 
increase with their increasing family, and provided bread for the 
little mouths that were sent to crave for it. She never grudged 
her own labour ; and a better or a kinder husband than she was 
blessed with, never woman had. To be sure he had his fancies 
and particular ways ; and, when he could steal a holyday, all his 
delight was to spend it on the salt waves (the worse luck !) for 
many an, anxious hour had she known even then, when he was 
out in his little boat, shooting wild-fowl, in the wild winter nights. 
But no harm ever came to him; only their eldest boy, their dear 
Maurice" (the mother never named him without glistening eyes), 
" took after his father's fancy for the sea, and set his heart upon 
being a sailor." And the father called to mind his own youthful 
longings, and would not control those of his child ; especially as 
he had yet another son, a fine promising lad, who took kindly to 
the farming business, and already lightened his father's labour. 
The mother heard all, and " spake not a word though her heart 
was fit to break,''^ for her sqn's choice was sanctioned by his fa- 
ther's approbation ; but sorely she grieved at parting with her 



THE SMUGGLER 127 



^rst-born, (what feelings are like those of a mother towards her 
first-born ?) and the young Maurice was her most loving and du- 
tiful child, and she had reared him with such care as only moth- 
ers can bestow, through the perilous years of a sickly infancy. 
But the father jested with her fears, and entered with the ardour 
of a boyish heart into his son's enterprising hopes ; and at last the 
youth (who could not rest satisfied with her silent acquiescence) 
wrung from her a faltering and reluctant consent. And when she 
shook her head mournfully at his promises of bringing rare and 
beautiful things from foreign parts for her and all his sisters, 
coaxed a half smile into her tearful looks, by concluding with — 
" And then, mother ! I will stay quiet at home amongst you all, 
and never want to leave you again." — " My Maurice sailed away," 
said the mother, " and from that time every thing went wrong. 
Before he had been gone a month, we buried my husband's moth- 
er ; but God called her away in a good old age, so we had no 
right to take on heavily at her loss, though we felt it sorely, and 
so did all our little ones, who had learned to read their bible on 
her knees." 

In addition to his own land, Campbell cultivated several acres 
which he rented of a neighbouring gentleman, whose disposition 
was restlessly litigious, and Campbell's being unhappily fiery and 
impetuous, disputes arose between them, and proceeded to such 
lengths that both parties finally referred their differences to legal 
abitrament. After many tedious and apparently frivolous delays, 
particularly trying to Campbell's irritable nature, the cause came 
on, and sentence was given in favour of his opponent ; and from 
that hour he adopted the firm persuasion that justice, impartial 
justice, was unattainable in the land of his fathers. 

This fatal prejudice turned all his thoughts to bitterness — ■ 
haunted him like a phantom in his fields — by his cheerful hearth 
— in his once peaceful bed, in the very embraces of his children, 
" who were born," he would tell them, in the midst of their inno- 



128 THE SMUGGLER. 



cent caresses, " slaves and bond-servants in the land where their 
fathers had been freemen." 

In this state of mind he listened, with eager credulity, to the 
speculative visions of a few agricultural adventurers who had 
embarked their small capitals on American adventure, and were 
on the eve of quitting their native country to seek wealth, liberty, 
and independence, in the back settlements of the United States. 

In an evil hour Campbell was prevailed on to embark his for- 
tunes with those of the self-expatriated emigrants. 

The tears and entreaties of his wife and children availed not to 
deter him from his rash purpose, and the unhappy mother was 
torn from her beloved home, where her heart lingered with a 
thousand tender reminiscences ; and, most tenaciously of all, in 
the affecting thought, that if ever her absent sailor returned to his 
native country, his first steps would be directed to the once happy 
dwelling of his parents, where the cold looks of the stranger would 
be all his welcome. 

The ship on board which the Campbells were embarked, with 
their five remaining children, and all their worldly goods, per- 
formed two-thirds of her course with prosperous celerity ; but, as 
she neared her wished-for haven, the wind, which had hitherto 
been uninterruptedly favourable, became unsteady, then contrary, 
so that they lost sea-way for many days. At last a storm, which 
had been gathering with awfully gradual preparation, burst forth 
with tremendous fury. Three days and nights the vessel drove 
before it ; but on the fourth, the masts and rigging went over- 
board, and before the wreck could be cut away, a plank in the 
ship's side was stove in by the floating timbers. In the general 
hurry and confusion, when all hands were employed in hacking 
away the encumbrances and getting up jury-masts, the leak re- 
mained undiscovered, till the water in the hold had gained to a 
depth of many feet ; and though the pumps were set to work, and 
kept going, by the almost superhuman exertions of crew and pas 



THE SMUGGLER. 129 



sengers, all was unavailing, and to betake themselves to the boat, 
was the last hurried and desperate resource. Campbell had suc- 
ceeded in lowering his three youngest children into the long-boat 
already crowded with their fellow-sharers in calamity, and was 
preparing to send down his youngest son and daughter, and to 
follow them with their mother in his arms, when a woman, press- 
ing before him with frantic haste, leaped down into the overloaded 
boat, which upset in an instant, and the perishing cry of twenty 
drowning creatures mingled with the agonizing shrieks of parents, 
husbands, and children, from the deck of the sinking ship. One 
other boat was yet alongside ; and Campbell was at last seated 
in her, with his two remaining children and their unconscious 
mother, who had sunk into a state of blessed insensibility, when 
the drowning screams of her lost little ones rang in her ears. 
Five-and-twenty persons were wedged in this frail bark, with a 
cask of water and a small bag of biscuit. An old sail had been 
flung down with these scanty stores, which they contrived to hoist, 
on the subsiding of the storm, towards the evening of their first 
day's commitment, in that "forlorn hope," to the wide world of 
waters. Their compass had gone down in the long-boat, and faint 
indeed were their hopes of ever reaching land, from which they 
had no means of computing their distance. But the unsleeping 
eye of Providence watched over them ; and, on the fourth day of 
their melancholy progress, a sail making towards them was des- 
cried on the verge of the horizon. It neared, and the ship proved 
to be a homeward-bound West India trader, on board which the 
perishing creatures were received with prompt humanity ; and 
on her reaching her appointed haven (Portsmouth), Campbell, with 
his companions in misfortune, and the remnant of his late flour- 
ishing family, once more set foot on British earth. He had saved 
about his person a small residue of his property ; but wholly in- 
suflacient to equip them for a second attempt, had he even been 
•io obstinately bent on the prosecution of his Transatlantic scheme, 

28* 



130 THE SMUGGLER. 



as to persist in it against (what appeared to him) the declared will 
of Providence. Once, in his younger days, he had visited the Isle 
of Wight; and the remembrance of its bowery cottages and 
beautiful bays were yet fresh in his mind. He crossed overwithl 
his family, and a few weeks put him in possession of a neat cabin 
and small fishing-boat ; and for a time the little family was sub- 
sisted in frugal comfort by the united industry of the father and 
son. Soon after their settlement in the island, their daughter! 
(matured to lovely womanhood) married a respectable and enter- 
prising young man, the owner of a pilot-vessel. In the course of 
three years she brought her husband as many children ; and du- 
ring that time all went well with them. But her William's oc- 
cupation (a lucrative one in war-time) exposed him to frequent 
and fearful dangers ; and one tempestuous winter's night, having 
ventured out to the assistance of a foundering sloop, his own little 
vessel perished in the attempt ; and the morning's tide floated her 
husband's corpse to the feet of his distracted wife, as she stood on 
the sea-beach watching every white sail that became visible 
through the haze of the grey-clouded dawn. 

The forlorn widow and her orphan babes found a refuge in her 
father's cabin ; and he and his son redoubled their laborious ex- 
ertions for their support. But these were heavy claims ; and the 
poor family but just contrived to live and struggle on, barely sup- 
plied with even the coarsest necessaries. When temptation assails 
the poor man, by holding out to his grasp the means of lessening 
the hardships and privations of those dear to him as his own soul, 
shall we deal out to Mm hard measure of judgment, and make 
more indulgent allowance for those who, without the same excuses 
to plead, set him the example of yielding ? 

Campbell (having first been seduced into casual and inconsid- 
erable ventures) was at last enrolled in the gang of smugglers 
who carried on their perilous trade along the coast ; and from 
that time, though comparative plenty revisited his cottage, and 



THE SMUGGLER. 131 



even seasons of temporary abundance, the careless smile of inno- 
cent security no longer beamed on the faces of its elder inmates. 
Margaret struggled long, with well-principled firmness, against 
the infatuation of her husband and son ; but flushed with success, 
emboldened by association with numbers, and finally rendered by 
habit quite insensible to the moral turpitude of their proceedings, 
they resisted her anxious remonstrances ; and at last, heart-sick 
of fruitless opposition, and shrinking from the stern rebuke and 
angry frown of him who had been for so many happy years the 
affectionate partner of her joys and sorrows, she first passively 
acquiesced in their unlawful traffic, and in the end was brought 
to contribute her share towards its furtherance, by secretly dis- 
posing of the prohibited articles. 

During my residence in the Isle of Wight, I had become ac- 
quainted with two or three families resident within a few mrles 
of the spot where I had taken up my habitation. With one of 
these, consisting of a widow lady of rank and her two grown-up 
daughters, I had been previously acquainted in London, and at 
other places. They had been recommended by the medical ad- 
viser of the youngest daughter, who was threatened by a pulmo- 
nary affection, to try the effects of a winter at the back of the 
island ; and I was agreeably surprised to find them inhabitants 
of a beautiful villa — " a cottage of humility" — at about three 
miles' distance from my own cabin at the under cliff". They were 
agreeable and accomplished women ; and a few hours spent in 
their company formed a pleasing and not unfrequent variety in 
my solitary life ; and, in the dearth of society incident to their 
marine retreat, my fair friends condescended to tolerate, and even 
welcome the eccentric old bachelor with their most gracious 
smiles. 

One November evening, my ramble had terminated at the villa ; 
and I had just drawn my chair into the cheerful circle round the 
tea-table, when a powdered footman entered with a very knowing 



132 THE SMUGGLER. 



look, and spoke a few words, in a nnysterious half whisper, to his 
lady, who smilingly replied aloud, " Oh, tell her to come in ; 
there is no one here of whose observation she need be apprehen- 
sive !" the communication of which assurance quickly ushered 
into the room my new acquaintance Margaret Campbell. An old 
rusty black bonnet was pulled down so as almost to shade her 
face from sight ; and her dingy red cloak (under which she car- 
ried some bulky parcel) was strained tight round a figure that 
seemed endeavouring to contract itself into the least possible com- 
pass. At sight of me she started and shrunk back, dropping her 
eyes with a fearful curtsy. 

" Ah, Margaret !" I exclaimed, too well divining the secret of 
her darkling embassy. 

But the lady of the house encouraged her to advance, saying, 

" Oh, never mind Mr. , he will not inform against us, though 

he shakes his head so awfully. Well, have you brought the 
tea ?" 

" And the lace, and gloves, and the silk scarfs ?" chimed in 
the young ladies, with eager curiosity sparkling in their eyes, as 
they almost dragged the precious budget, with their own fair 
hands, from beneath the poor woman's cloak. " Have you 
brought our scarfs at last ? What a time we have been expect- 
ing them !" 

" Yes, indeed," echoed Lady Mary ; " and, depending on your 
promise, I have been quite distressed for tea. There is really no 
dependence on your word, Mrs. Campbell ; and yet I have been 
at some pains to impress on you a due sense of your Christian 
duties, amongst which you have often heard me remark (and I 
am sure the tracts I have given you inculcate the same doctrine), 
that a strict attention to truth is one of the most essential. Well, 
Where's the tea ?" 

" Oh, my lady !" answered the poor woman, with an humbly 
deprecating tone and look, " if you did but know what risks we 



THE SMUGGLER. 133 



run to get these things, and how uncertain our trade is, you would 
not wonder that we cannot always oblige our customers so punc- 
tually as we would wish. I've brought the scarfs and the other 
things for the young ladies ; but the tea" — 

" What, no tea yet ! Really, it is too bad, Mrs. Campbell ; I 
must try if other people are not more to be depended on ; and, 
indeed, my maid has lately recommended to me a friend of hers, 
who is, she assures me, the most punctual creature in the world, 
as well as a very serious person ; and desirous, besides, of sub- 
scribing to my penny collection for the conversion of the Hindoos, 
which you know I have never succeeded in getting you to do 
regularly, though I gave you that affecting tract, with the pic- 
tures, about Jaggernaut ; and, in short, Mrs. Campbell" — 

" Indeed — indeed, my lady, we have tried hard to get the goods 
for your ladyship ; and your ladyship may stop the last three 
weeks for Jiggernot out of the payment for the scarfs, and you 
shall have the tea a bargain ; but there's such a sharp look-out 
now, and the Ranger has been cruising off the island for this 
week past, and our people haven't been able to get nothing 
ashore ; and yet I'm sure my husband and son have been upon 
the watch along the beach, and in the boat, these three nights, in 
all this dreadful weather ; and to-night, though it blows a gale, 
they're out again, God help 'em !" 

And the poor woman cast a tearful shuddering glance towards 
the window, against which (sounding wildly through the triple 
barrier of blinds, shutters, and the thick rich folds of the crimson 
curtains) a tempest of wind and sleet drove uproariously. 

The lady condescended to be appeased by these assurances that 
the foreign luxury should be obtained for her that night, if human 
exertions, made at the peril of human life, could succeed in land- 
ing it. The silks, &c., were examined and approved of by the 
young ladies, and finally taken and paid for, after a word of hag- 
gling about " the price of blood !" as the purchase-money might 



134 THE SMUGGLER. 



too justly have been denominated, and after deducting from it, by 
their mamma's direction, Margaret's arrear of threepence to her 
ladyship's Hindoo collection. 

Mrs. Campbell received her money with a heavy sigh, and 
humbly curtsying, withdrew from the presence, not without (in- 
voluntarily as it seemed) stealing an abashed glance of my coun- 
tenance as she passed me. She was no sooner out of the room 
than her fair customers began expatiating with rapturous volu- 
bility on the beauty and cheapness of their purchases — an incon- 
sistency of remark that puzzled me exceedingly, as, not five 
minutes before, while bargaining with the seller, they had averred 
her goods to be of very inferior manufacture, and exorbitantly 

dear. " Ay, but " observed the managing mamma, " you 

were both in such a hurry, or you might have made better bar- 
gains. But it's always the way ; and yet I kept winking at you 
all the while. I should have got those things half as cheap 
again. '^ 

Indulgent as I am by nature to the little whims and foibles of 
the sex, I could not, on the present occasion, refrain from hinting 
to my fair friends a part of what was passing in my mind. At 
first they laughed at my quizzical scruples, resorting, for their 
defence, to the commonplace remark, that " the few trifles they 
occasionally purchased could make no material difference ; for 
that the people would smuggle all the same, and meet with plenty 
of encouragement from others, if not from them." And when I 
pressed the question a little further, suggesting to their con- 
sciences, whether all who encouraged the forbidden traffic were 
not, in a great measure, responsible for the guilt incurred, and 
the lives lost in the prosecution of it, they bid me not talk of such 
horrid things, and hurried away their recent purchases in a sort 
of disconcerted silence, that spoke any thing rather than remorse 
and purposed reformation. My " sermonizing," as it was termed, 
seemed to have thrown a spell over the frank sociability that 



p 



THE SMUGGLER. 135 



usually characterized our evening coteries. Conversation lan- 
guished — the piano was out of tune, and the young ladies' voices 
not in tune. Their mamma broke her netting silk every three 
minutes ; and, from a dissertation on the rottenness of modern 
silk, digressed insensibly into the subject of foreign missions, 
ladies' committees, and branch Bible associations ; ever and anon, 
as the storm waxed louder and louder, interspersing her remarks 
with pathetic lamentations at the perverseness with which the 
very elements seemed to conspire with government against the 
safe landing of the commodities her " soul longed after." 

The storm did indeed rage fearfully, and its increasing violence 
warned me to retrace my homeward way, before the disappear- 
ance of a yet glimmering moon should leave me to pursue it in 
total darkness. Flapping my hat over my eyes, and wrapping 
myself snugly round in the thick folds of a huge boat-cloak, I sal- 
lied forth from the cheerful brightness of Lady Mary's boudoir, 
into the darkness visible of the wild scene without. Wildly mag- 
nificent it was, in truth ! My path lay along the shore, against 
which mountainous waves came rolling in long ridges, with a 
sound like thunder. Sleet, falling at intervals, mingled with the 
sea surf, whirled high into the air in showers of foam, and both 
were driven into my face by the south-west blast, with a violence 
that obliged me frequently to stop and gasp for breath. Large 
masses of clouds now hurried in sublime disorder across the dim 
struggling moon, whose pale watery rays yet gleamed at intervals, 
with ghastly indistinctness, along the white sands, and on the 
frothy crests of the advancing billows. 

As I pursued my way, buffeting the conflicting elements, other 
sounds, methought, appeared to mingle in their wild uproar. The 
hoarse and shrill intonation of human voices seemed blended with 
the wailing and sobbing of the storm, and the creaking and la- 
bouring of planks, and the splash of oars, was distinguishable, I 
thought, in the long lull of the retreating waves. I was not de- 



136 THE SMUGGLER. 



ceived ; a momentary gleam of moonlight glanced on the white 
sails of a lugger in the offing ; and one of her boats — a black 
speck on the billows — was discernible, working her way laborious- 
ly towards the coast. At that moment, another boat shot along 
close in-shore, with the alacrity of lightning ; and, at the same 
instant, a man rushed by me, whose tall remarkable figure I rec- 
ognised for Campbell, even in that dim momentary glance. He 
darted on with the rapidity of an arrow, and immediately I heard 
a long shrill whistle, echoed and re-echoed by another and another, 
from the cliffs, from the shore, and from the sea. Those sights 
and sounds indicated too plainly that the demons of mischief were 
at work, and the time and scene were gloomily in unison with 
their hour of evil agency. The moon had almost withdrawn her 
feeble light, and I could no longer discern any objects but the 
white sands under my feet, and the sea-foam that frothed over 
them. More than two miles of my homeward way yet lay before 
me, and in that space I should have to cross two gullies furrowed 
through the sands by land-springs from the cliffs. 

Intermingled and bedded in these, were numerous rocky frag- 
ments and foundered masses of the cliff, amongst which it was 
easy to pick one's daylight way; but the impenetrable darkness 
that now enveloped every object, made me pause, to consider how 
far it might be safe, or even practicable, for a stranger to perse- 
vere in the wave-washed path. A light streaming from one of the 
windows of Campbell's cottage, a few furlongs up the beach, deci- 
ded the result of my deliberations, and I turned towards the little 
dwelling, purposing to apply there for a light and a guide, should 
the younger Campbell chance to be at home. 

I had no need to knock for admittance — the door was wide 
open, and, on its threshold, stood the mother of the family. The 
light from within slanted athwart her face and figure, and I could 
perceive that she was listening with intense breathlessness, and 



THE SMUGGLER. 137 



with eyes straining, as if they sought to pierce the darkness, to- 
wards the quarter from whence I was approaching. 

Her ear soon caught the sound of my step on the loose shingle, 
and she started forward, exclaiming, " Oh, Amy ! — thank God I 
— here they are !" The young woman sprang to the door with 
a light, and its beams, alas ! revealed my then unwelcome face, 
instead of that of the father and husband. — " Oh, sir, I thought — " 
was poor Margaret's hurried, unfinished exclamation, when she 
discovered her mistake, " but you are kindly welcome," she ad- 
ded, quickly recovering herself, " for this is not a night for any 
Christian soul to be out in, though my husband and son, — Oh, 
sir ! they are both — both tossing in one little boat on that dreadful 
sea : and that is not all — the Ranger's boats are on the look-out 
for the lugger they are going to help to unload, and God knows 
what may happen ! I prayed and beseeched them for this night 
only to stay peaceably at home, such a night of weather as was 
working up, but all in vain. We had promised my lady, and the 
cargo was to be landed to-night. Oh, sir ! my lady, and the like 
of she, little think — " and the poor woman burst into tears. This 
was no time for admonition and reproof, or for those consolatory 
observations so often made to the unhappy, of " I told you it would 
come to this ;" or, " This would not have happened if you had 
taken my advice ;" or, " Well, you have brought it all upon 
yourself." 

When God has spoken, the fellow-mortal may well forbear 
all language but that of sympathy and comfort, and He had now 
spoken to the hearts of these poor people. The fatal consequen- 
ces of their illicit traffic, and its nefariousness, were brought home 
to their minds more forcibly by the agonizing suspense they were 
enduring, than could have been effected by any arguments I might 
have laboured to enforce. I did my best to allay those terrors — 
to dispel them would have been impossible, while the tempest ra- 
ged louder and louder, and, independent of that, there were other 

29 



138 THE SMUGGLER. 



grounds of too reasonable apprehension. I suggested the proba- 
bility of Campbell's not being in the boat, as he had passed me 
on shore so recently ; but, at all events, he and his son were 
abroad with a desperate gang, expecting, and armed against re^ 
sistance. Forgetful of my own purpose of borrowing a lantern 
to proceed homeward, I entered the cabin with the distressed fe- 
males, whose looks thanked me for not turning away from them 
in their hour of trial. 

A cheerful fire brightened the interior of the little dwelling, 
where neatness and order still bore testimony that the habits of its: 
inmates had at one time been those of peaceful and honest indus-. 
try. The fire-light gleamed ruddy red on the clean brick floor ;| 
a carved oak table, and a. iew heavy old chairs of the same fash- 
ion, were bright with the polish of age and housewifery ; and 
one, distinguished by a high stuffed back and arms and a green | 
cushion, was placed close beside the ingle-nook, the easily distin- 
guished seat of the father of the family. His pipe lay close at 
hand (the curious meerschaum pipe) on the high mantelpiece, 
where a pair of brass candlesticks, a few china cups, some tall 
slim ale glasses (their long shanks ornamented with white spiral 
lines), two foreign shells, some little French pictures of saints, in 
all the colours of the rainbow, and sundry tobacco-stoppers of 
fantastical figure, were arranged in symmetrical order. The 
dresser was elaborately set out with its rows of yellow ware, its 
mugs of various shape and size, and quaint diversity of mh to 
and device, its japanned tray and mahogany tea-chest, proudly 
conspicuous in the centre. The walls were hung round with nets, 
baskets, and fishing apparatus, and high over the chimneypiece, 
part of a whale's jaw, and two long crossed peacock's feathers, 
were affixed in a sort of trophy. All sorts of useful and nonde- 
script articles were suspended to the rafter ; but Campbell's duck- 
gun, and his two clumsy pistols, rested not on the hooks he was 
wont to call his armoury. An unfinished net was suspended by 



THE SMUGGLER. 139 



the chimney corner, at which the youthful widow had recently 
been employed. She resumed her seat and shuttle, but the hand 
that held it often rested idly on her lap, while her eyes were riv- 
eted with mournful solicitude on the countenance of her mother. 

There was something particularly interesting in the appearance 
of this young woman. Not beauty of feature, for, excepting a 
pair of fine dark eyes, shaded by very long black eyelashes, there 
was nothing uncommon in her countenance, and her naturally 
dark and colourless complexion was now deeply tinged with the 
sallow hue of sickness. Her lips were whiter than her cheeks, 
and her uncommonly tall figure, bowed down with the burthen of 
weakness and sorrow, was attenuated to a state that would have 
amounted to gaunt meagreness, had the frame been less slightly 
and delicately formed. But when she lifted up those dark eyes, 
their melancholy light was touchingly in unison with the general 
character of that shadowy figure that seemed almost transparent 
to the working of the wounded spirit within. 

Amy's young heart had never recovered the shock of her Wil- 
liam's untimely death, and her timid tender spirit was overbur- 
thened with a heavy load of conscious self-reproach, that for her 
sake, and that of her infants, her father and brother had involved 
themselves in the perilous unlawfulness of their present courses. 

As she sat looking in her mother's face, I could read in hers the 
thoughts that were passing in her mind. At last, a large tear, 
that had been slowly gathering, swelled over her quivering eye- 
lid, and rising suddenly, and letting fall the netting and shuttle, 
she came and edged herself on one corner of her mother's chair, 
and clasping one arm round her neck, and hiding her face on her 
shoulder, sobbed out, " Mother !" — " My Amy ! my dear child !" 
whispered the fond parent, tenderly caressing her, " why should 
you always reproach yourself so ? You, who have been a good 
dutiful child, and a comfort to us, and a blessing, ever since you 
was born ? Before your poor father fell into evil company, and 



140 THE SMUGGLER. 



hearkened to their wicked persuasions, did we not contrive to 
maintain ourselves, and your dear fatherless babies, by God's 
blessing on our honest industry ? And where should you have 
taken refuge, my precious Amy, but under your parents' roof?" 
A look of eloquent gratitude and a tender silent kiss were Amy's 
reply to that soothing whisper. For a few moments this touch- 
ing intercourse of hearts beguiled them from the intense anxiety 
with which they had been listening to every sound from without ; 
but the redoubling violence of the storm roused them fearfully 
from that temporary abstraction, and they started, and shuddered, 
and looked in one another's faces, and in mine, as if imploring 
comfort, when, alas ! I had only sympathy to bestow. The con- 
flict of winds and waters was indeed tremendous, and I felt too 
forcibly convinced, that, if the poor Campbells were exposed to it 
in their little nut-shell of a boat, nothing short of a miracle could 
save them from a watery grave. 

There was some chance, however, that the landing of the con- 
traband bales might have been effected by the lugger's boats with- 
out help from shore ; and in that case, the prolonged absence of 
the husband and son might arise from their having proceeded with 
others of the gang to convey them to some inland place of con- 
cealment. The probability of this suggestion was eagerly caught 
at by the anxious pair, but the ray of hope elicited from it, gleam- 
ed with transient brightness. A gust of wind, more awful than 
any that had preceded it, rushed past with deafening uproar, and 
as it died away, low sobs, and shrill moaning sounds, seemed 
mingled with its deep bass. We were all silent — now straining 
our sight from the cabin-door into the murky darkness without — 
now gathering together round the late blazing hearth, where the 
neglected embers emitted only a fitful glimmer. The wind, whist- 
ling through every chink and cranny, waved to and fro the flame 
of the small candle declining in its socket, and at last the hour of 
twelve was struck by " the old clock that ticked behind the door" 



THE SMUGGLER. 141 



in its dark heavy case. At that moment a large venerable-look- 
ing book, that lay with a few others on a hanging shelf near the 
chimney, slipped from tl.e edge on M'hich it had been overbal- 
anced, and fell with a dull heavy sound at Margaret's feet. It 
was the Bible that had belonged to her husband's mother, and, 
stooping to pick up and replace it, she perceived that it had fall- 
en open at the leaf, where, twenty-two years back from that very 
day, the venerable parent had recorded with pious gratitude the 
birth of her son's first-born. " Ah, ray dear sou ! my own good 
Maurice !" ejaculated the heart-struck mother, " I was not used 
to forget the day God gave thee to me — Thou wert the first to 
leave me, and now — " She was interrupted by the low indistinct 
murmur of a human voice, that sounded near us. I started — but 
Amys ear was familiar with the tone — it was that of one of her 
little one's, talking and moaning in its sleep. The small cham- 
ber where they lay, opened from that we were in, and the young 
mother crept softly towards the bed of her sleeping infants. She 
was still bending over them, when the outer door was suddenly 
dashed open, and Campbell — Campbell himself, burst into the 
cottage. Oh ! with what a shriek of ecstasy was he welcomed — 
with what a rapture of inarticulate words, clinging embraces, 
and tearful smiles ! — But the joy was shortlived, and succeeded 
by a sudden chill of nameless apprehension ; for, disengaging 
himself roughly from the arms of his wife and daughter, he made 
straight towards his own old chair, and flinging himself back in 
it, covered his face with his clasped "hands. One only cause for 
this fearful agitation suggested itself to his trembling wife — " My 
son ! my son !" she shrieked out, grasping her husband's arm — 
" What have you done with him, Campbell ? He is dead ! He 
is murdered ! Oh ! I knew it would come to this — " 

" Peace, woman !" shouted Campbell, in a voice of thunder, 
uncovering his face as he started up wildly from his chair with 
a look of appalling fierceness, — " Peace, woman ! your son is 

29* 



142 THE SMUGGLER. 



safe ;" then his voice abruptly sinking into a hoarse low tone, hej 
added, " This is not Jus blood," and he flung on the table before 
him his broad white cross belt, on which the tokens of a deadly 
fray were frightfully apparent. 

" Campbell !" I said, " unhappy man ! what have you done ? 
To what have you exposed your wretched family? For their 
sakes escape — -escape for your life, while the darkness favours 
you." He looked at me for a moment as if wavering, but im- 
mediately resuming the voice and aspect of desperate sternness, 
replied, — 

•' It is too late — they are at my heels — the bloodhounds ! They 
tracked me home." And while he yet spoke, the trampling of 
feet, and the sound of loud voices confirmed his words. The door 
burst open, and several rough-looking men in sailors' garb rushed 1 
into the cottage. 

'* Ah ! we have you, my man," they vociferated ; " we have 
you safe, though the young villain has given us the slip." — "Vil- 
lain !" shouted Campbell, " who dares call my boy a villain ?" 
But, checking himself instantaneously, he added, in a subdued 
quiet tone, — " But I am in your power, and you must say what 
you please, and do what you will." And so saying, he once more 
threw himself back in his old chair, in sullen submissiveness. 
The women clung weeping around him, his unhappy wife exclaim- 
ing, — " Oh ! what has he done ? If there has been mischief, it 
is not his fault — he would not hurt a fly : for all his rough way 
he is as tender-hearted as a child. — Richard !• Richard ! speak to 
them, tell them that they have mistaken you for another." He 
neither spoke nor moved, nor lifted his eyes up from the floor on 
which they were riveted. 

" No mistake at all, mistress !" said one of the men, " he has 
only shot one of our people, that's all, and we must fit him with a 
pair of these bracelets." And so saying, he began fastening a 
pair of handcuffs on Campbell's wrists. He offered no resistance. 



THE SMUGGLER. 143 



and seemed, indeed, almost unconscious of what was doing, when 
the eldest of Amy's children, a pretty little girl about four years 
old, who, having been awakened by the noise, had crept sofdy 
from her bed, and made her way unperceived towards her grand- 
father, burst into a fit of loud sobbing, and, climbing up upon his 
knees, and clasping her little arms about his neck, and laying her 
soft cheek to his dark rough one, lisped out — " Send away naughty 
men, grandad — naughty men frighten Amy !" 

The springs of sensibility that seemed frozen up in Campbell's 
bosom, were touched electrically by the loving voice and caresses 
of his little darling. He hugged her to his bosom, which began 
to heave convulsively, and for a few minutes the tears of the old 
man and the little child mingled in touching silence. As he 
clasped her thus, the handcuff that was already fastened on his 
left wrist pressed painfully on her tender arm, and as she shrank 
from it he seemed first to perceive the ignominious fetter. His 
features were wrung by a sudden convulsion ; but the expression 
was momentary, and, turning round his head towards his weeping 
daughter, he said quietly, " Amy, my dear child ! take the poor 
baby — I little thought, dear lamb ! she would ever find hurt or 
harm in her old grandfather's arms." 

It was a touching scene — even the rough sailors seemed affected 
by it, and they were more gently completing their operation of 
attaching the other manacle, when again voices and footsteps 
were heard approaching; again the door opened, and another 
party of sailors entered, bearing amongst them a ghastly burthen, 
the lifeless body of the unfortunate young man, who had been sho 
in the execution of his duty, by the rash hand of the wretched 
man before us, whose fire was not the less fatal for having been 
discharged almost aimlessly in the bustle of a desperate conflict. 
" We've missed our boats, and we could not let him lie bleeding 
on the beach, poor fellow !" said one of the new comers, in reply 
to an exclamation of surprise from those of their party already in 



'*4 THE SMUGGLER. 



po^ses^ioa of the cottage. Camptell's agitation was fearful to be 
held; he tiin;ed slmdjering frcn the «;^i,t of his victi.n_the 
wo,non stood petrified with horror ; I alone, retaining some degree 
of st>h-posso33ioa, advanced to examine if human aid might yet 
avail to save the poor youth, who was laid, apparently a corpse, 
on three chftira noxt the door. 

Comprehending my purpose, the humane and serviceable ten- 
derness of poor Margaret's nature prevailed even in that hour of 
her extreme distress, and she came trembling to assist me in that 
painful examination. 

The young man's face had dropt aside on one shoulder towards 
the wall, and was almost covered by the luxuriant hair (a sailor's 
pride) which had escaped from the confining ribbon, and fell in 
dark wet masses across his cheek and brow. His right hand 
hung down over the side of the chair, and taking it into mine I 
found that It was already as cold as marble, and that all pulsation 
had ceased. 

Margaret had as promptly as her agitation would permit re- 
moved his black handkerchief, and unbuttoned the collar of his 
checked shirt, and though she started and shuddered inwardly at 
the sight of blood thickly congealed over his bosom, persisted he. 
roically in her trying task. A handkerchief had been hastily 
stuffed down as a temporary pledget into the wounded breast. In 
removing it, Margaret's finger became entangled by a black silk 
cord passed round the youth's neck, to which a small locket was 
suspended. She was hastily putting it aside, when the light held 
by one of the sailors fell upon the medallion (a perforated gold 
pocket-piece), and her eye glancing towards it, a half-choked ex- 
clamation broke from her lips, and looking up I saw her standing 
motionless-breathless— her hands clasped together with convul- 
sive vehemence, and her eyes almost starting from their sockets, 
in the state of indescribable horror with which they were riveted 



I ™^™a.E^. us 

on that bosom-token. At last a cry (such a one as my ears never 
before heard, the recollection of which still curdles the blood in 
my veins) burst from her lips, and brought her daughter and hus- 
band (even the unhappy man himself, manacled as he was) to the 
side of his victim, over whom Margaret was still bending in lliat 
intense agony. But at last, as if suddenly conscious that her hus- 
band stood beside her, and was gazing with her on that ghastly 
spectacle (while large cold drops gathered on his brow, and his 
white lips quivered as he gazed), she looked up in his face with 
such a look as I never shall forget. It was one of horrid calm- 
ness, more fearful to behold than the wildest expression of passion- 
ate agony, and grasping his fettered hand firmly in one of hers, 
and with the other pointing to the perforated gold piece, as it lay 
on the mangled bosom of the dead youth, she said in a low, dis- 
tinct, unnatural voice — " Who is that, Richard ?" He started, 
and his eyes, which had been riveted with an expression of deep 
horror on the bloody work of his rash hand, now caught sight of 
the gold token, and from that wandered wildly and hurriedly over 
the lifeless form, while his whole frame shook as if in the paroxysm 
of an ague fit. Gradually the universal tremor subsided — the 
wandering eyes settled into a ghastly stare, the convulsive work- 
ings of the muscles of his face gave way to a rigid fixedness, and he 
stood like one petrified in the very burst of despair. Once more 
Margaret repeated, in that quiet deliberate tone, " Who is that, 
Richard ?" and, suddenly leaning forward, dashed aside from the 
face of the corpse the dark locks that had hitherto concealed it. 
Then, clasping her hands in a sort of joyous triumph, she cried 
out in a shrill voice — " I knew it was my son ! My son is come 
home at last ! Richard, welcome your son !" and, snatching her 
husband's hand, she endeavoured to pull him forward towards the 
pale face of the dead. But he to whom this heartrending appeal 
was spoken, replied only by one deep groan, that seemed to burst 



14C THE SMUGGLER 



up, as it were, the very fountains of his heart. He staggered 
back a few paces — his eyes closed — the convulsion of a moment 
passed over his features, and he sank down as inanimate as the 
pale corpse that was still clasped with frantic rapture to the bosom 
of the brain-struck mother. 



A FAIR PLACE AND PLEASANT. 147 



A FAIR PLACE AND PLEASANT. 



A FAIR place and pleasant, this same world of ours ! 
Who says there are serpents 'mongst all the sweet flowers 
Who says every blossom we pluck has its thorn ? 
Pho ! Pho ! laugh those musty old sayings to scorn. 

If you roam to the tropics for flowers rich and rare, 
No doubt there are serpents, and deadly ones, there ; 
If none but the rose will content ye, 'tis true 
You may get sundry scratches, and ugly ones too. 

But pr'ythee look there — Could a serpent find room 
In that close- woven moss, where those violets bloom ? 
And reach me that woodbine (you'll get it with ease) — 
Now, wiseacre ! where are the thorns, if you please ? 

I say there are angels in every spot. 
Though our dim earthly vision discerneth them not ; 
That they're guardians assign'd to the least of us all, 
By Him who takes note if a sparrow but fall. 

That they're aye flitting near us, around us, above, 
On missions of kindness, compassion, and love — 



148 A FAIR PLACE AND PLEASANT. 

That they're glad when we're happy, disturb'd at our tears, 
Distress'd at our weaknesses, failings, and fears. 

That they care for the least of our innocent joys, 
Though we're cozen'd like children with trifles and toys, 
And can lead us to bloom-beds, and lovely ones too. 
Where snake never harbour'd, and thorn never grew. 



THE THREE FRIENDS. 149 



THE THREE FRIENDS. 

STANZAS ACCOMPANYING A PICTURE. 



We three were loving friends ! — a lowly life 
Of humble peace, obscure content, we led : 

Stealing away, withouten noise or strife. 
Like some small streamlet in its mossy bed. 

We had our joys in common — wisdom, wit, 
And learned lore, had little share in those : 

Thus, by the winter fire we used to sit, 
Or in the summer evening's warm repose. 

At our sweet bowery window, op'ning down 
To the green grass, beneath the flowering lime. 

When the deep curfew from the distant town 
Came mellow'd, like the voice of olden time ; 

And our grave neighbour, from the barn hard by, 
The great grey owl, sail'd out on soundless wings, 

And the pale stars, like beams of memory, 
Brighten'd as twilight veil'd all earthly things. 

'Twas then we used to sit, as pictured thus — 
My pillow, as in childhood, still the same, 
30 



150 THE THREE FRIENDS. 

Those venerable knees, and close to us, 

Old Ranger, pressing oft his jealous claim — 

And then I loved to feel that gentle hand 
Laid like a blessing on my head — to hear 

The " auld-warld" stories, ever at command, 
By all but her forgotten many a year ; 

And when we talk'd together of the days 

We both remember'd — and of those who slept— 

And the old dog look'd up with wistful gaze. 
As if he, too, that faithful record kept. 

We three were loving friends ! — Now one is gone- 
And one — poor feeble thing ! — declineth fast — 

And well I w6t,^the days are drawing on 
Will find me here, the lonely and the last ; 

But not to tarry long ; and when I go, 

The stranger's hand will have dominion here, 

And lay thy walls, my peaceful dwelling ! low, 
As my last lodging in the churchyard near. 



TO MY BIRDIE. 151 



TO MY BIRDIE. 



Herb's only you an' me, Birdie ! here's only you an' me ! 
An' there you sit, you humdrum fowl ! 
Sae mute an' mopish as an owl — 

Sour companie ! 

Sing me a little sang. Birdie ! lilt up a little lay I 
When folks are here, fu' fain are ye 
To stun them with yere minstrelsie 

The lee-lang day ; 

An' now we're only twa, Birdie ! an' now we're only twa , 
'Twere sure but kind an' cozie, Birdie ! 
To charm, wi' yere wee hurdy-gurdie, 

Dull Care awa'. 

Ye ken, when folks are pair'd. Birdie ! ye ken, when folks are 
pair'd. 
Life's fair, an' foul and freakish weather, 
An' light an' lumbrin' loads, thegither 

Maun a' be shared : 

An' shared wi' lovin' hearts. Birdie ! wi^ lovin' hearts an' free ; 
Fu' fashious loads may weel be borne, 
An' roughest roads to velvet turn. 

Trod cheerfully. 



152 TO MY BIRDIE. 



We've a' our cares an' crosses, Birdie ! we've a' our cares an' 
crosses, 
But then to sulk an' sit sae glum — 
Hout ! tout ! — what guid o' that can come 

To mend ane's losses ? 

Ye're dipt in wiry fence, Birdie ! ye're dipt in wiry fence ; 
An' aiblins I, gin I mote gang 
Upo' a wish, wad be or lang 

Wi' frien's far hence : 

But what's a wish, ye ken, Birdie ! but what's a wish, ye ken ? 
Nae cantrip naig, like hers of Fife, 
Wha darnit wi' the auld weird wife, 

Flood, fell, an' fen. 

'Tis true, ye're furnish'd fair. Birdie ! 'tis true, ye're furnish'd 
fair, 
Wi' a braw pair o' bonnie wings, 
Wad lift ye whar yon lav 'rock sings, 

High up i' th' air ; 

But then that wire's sae Strang, Birdie ! but then that wire's sae 
Strang ! 
An' I mysel' sae seemin' free — 
Nae wings have I to waften me 

Whar fain I'd gang. 

An' say we'd baith our wills. Birdie ! we'd each our wilfu' way : 
Whar lav'rocks hover, falcons fly ; 
An' snares an' pitfa's aften lie 

Whar wishes stray. 



TO MY BIRDIE. 153 



All' ae thing weel I wot, Birdie ! an' ae thing weel I wot — 
There's Ane abune the highest sphere, 
Wha cares for a' His creatures here, 

Marks ev'ry lot ; 

Wha guards the crowned king, Birdie ! wha guards the crowned 
king, 
An' taketh heed for sic as me — 
Sae little worth — an' e'en for thee, 

Puir witless thing ! 

Sae now, let's baith cheer up, Birdie ! an' sin' we're only twa— 

Aff han' — let's ilk ane do our best, 

To ding that crabbit, canker'd pest, 

Dull Care awa' ' 
30=^ 



OH! ENVIES AN UNC ANNIE GUEST. 



OH! ENVIE'S AN UNCANNIE GUEST. 



Oh ! Envie's an uncanny guest, 

I've heard it a'way, naethin' doublin' i 

An' yet, she bideth i' my breast, 
An' winna gang, for a' my routin'. 

She does na wear her foulest face 

To scare me quite, the crafty quean ! 

But whiles, a sentimental grace — 
A saft, poetic, pensive mien ; 

As, " Hark !" quo' she, " that mirthfu' sang, 
yon Birdie's, frae the dancin' rowans, 

An' mark yon Lassie link alang, 

Sae lightsome, o'er the dewy gowans. 

" Oh, warldly honours ! warldly walth ! 

How far thae lowly lots surpass ye ; 
Contentit labour, jocund health, 

O' yon sma' Bird, an' simple Lassie. 

" Blythe, bonnie creatures ! fain would I, 
Tho' walth an' fame I've nane to barter — " 

Sae softly thus will Envie sigh — 
Sae saintly, like a Virgin Martyr. 



OH! ENVIE'S AN UNCANNIE GUEST. 15^ 

Nor scovvleth she, vvi' fiendish leuks, 

At heaps o' gowd, or laurel crowns, 
But gravely whispers, " Gowd buys beuks, 

An' lovin' lauds, an' silver soun's !" 

An' that's but truth, an' little wrang, 

We'll a' alloo, in «iclike havers — 
But let alane the jaud, or lang 

She starts mair guilefu' clishmaclavers ; 

As, " Leuk !" quo' she, " yon burly chiel, 

Wi' red, round face, like Hob the miller, 
What blund'rin' turn o' Fortune's wheel 

Gat him the luck o' mickle siller ? 

" What earthly bliss conceiveth he 

Ayont a mess o' sav'ry pottage — 
A flarin' coach — a shrievaltie — 

A gimcrack castle, or a cottage ? 

" An' tither wise-like wizen carle, 

Wi' visage yellow as a crocus, 
An' eyes a' pucker'd in a harl, 

That peer through's han' (which mak's a focus) — 

" At yonner awfu' brick-dust daub, 

His bran-new Reubens — Reubens ! horrit ! 

Ay, warrantit by Mynheer Schaub, 

Wha's pooch'd the ninny's thoosan's for it. 

" An' that auld crabbit chuff! wha pays 

Doon hunderts for an auld Elzeevir ; 
An' that young fule ! wi' four blood bays, 

An' nae mair spirit than a weaver, 



OH! ENVIE'S AN UNCANNIE GUEST. 



" For aught that's really fine an' gran' — 
An' yet the cretur's travell'd Europe, 

An' tauks o' Rome, the Vatican, * 

The Greeks, the Louvre, Voltaire, an' Merope. 

" An' that gay Dowager an' daughters, 

Wha've been abroad, an' brought back hame 

French laces — graces — scented waters — 
Mosaics — Cameos, an' — fame. 

" An' a' thae folk rin to an' fra, 

An' scatter gowd like chucky-stanes ; 

While ither folk, for aught I knaw, 
As glide, if no as lucky anes" 

" Haud, Madame Envie ! Are ye there ?" 
Quoth I — " Methinks, frae sma' beginnin's, 

For a' yere sanctimonious air, 

Ye're gettin' on till serious sinnin's. 

"What's ways o' ither folk to me ? 

Or a' their gowd — or hoo they spend it ? 
Fause hizzie ! let a bodie be 

Wha'd fain be humble and contentit." 

'' Oh ! very weel — nae need," quo' she, 

•' To rage wi' virtue sae heroic ; 
Mak much o' yere philosophic, 

Ye'U need it a', my leddy Stoic ! 

" When Beltane comes, an' a' the dells 
An' a' the banks an' braes are ringin' 

Wi' bleat o' lambs, an' tinklin' bells. 

An' wimplin' burns, an' lintwhites singin' ; 



OH! ENVIE'S AN UNCANNIE GUEST. 157 



" And a' the bonnie broomie knowes 
Wi' tufts o' flowerin' may are crested, 

Festoon'd wi' monie a wildin' rose, 

An' vi'lets, 'mangst the auld roots nested ; 

" An' ev'ry whiff o' win's a freight, 

Frae Heav'n itsel', o' sweet sensation — 

An' ev'ry livin' thing's elate 

Wi' Nature's blissfu' renovation ; 

" An' ye're a captive — sick an' lane, 
Sae sadly frae yere window peerin', 

Ye'U need a heart o' flint and stane 
To bar me fairly out o' hearin'. 

" An' lillin' loud, like merle in June, 

Comes kintra Joan, but loupin' pass ye — 

I guess we'll wauk that auncient croon 

' Oh, Heaven ! were I some Cottage Lassie !' " 



158 RANGER'S GRAVE. 



RANGER'S GRAVE. 

MARCH 1825. 



He's dead and gone ! — He's dead and gone ! 
And the lime-tree branches wave, 
And the daisy blows, 
And the green grass grows, 
Upon his grave. 

He's dead and gone ! — He's dead and gone ! 
And he sleeps by the flowering lime, 
Where he loved to lie, 
When the sun was high, 
In summer time. 

We've laid him there, for I could not bear 
His poor old bones to hide 
In some dark hole. 
Where rat and mole 
And blind. worms bide. 

We've laid him there, where the blessed air 
Disports with the lovely light. 
And raineth showers 
Of those sweet flowers 
So silver white ; 



RANGER'S GRAVE. 15'J 



Where the blackbird sings, and the wild bee's wings 
Make music all day long, 
And the cricket at night 
(A dusky sprite !) 
Takes up the song. 

He loved to lie, where his wakeful eye 
Could keep me still in sight, 
Whence a word or a sign, 
Or a look of mine, 

Brought liim like light. 

Nor word, nor sign, nor look of mine, 
From under the lime-tree bough, 
With bark and bound, 
And frolic round. 

Shall bring him now. 

But he taketh his rest, where he loved best 
In the days of his life to be. 
And that place will not 
Be a common spot 
Of earth to me. 



IT 34 











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